Appassionata

‘I had warbling singers on either side of me last night,’ grumbled Simon. ‘Wonder if they sell sleeping-pills off prescription?’

‘Wish I could buy some homesick pills,’ sighed Julian.

‘I cut myself shaving this morning,’ said Randy, who was still drunk from last night. ‘My red eyes have nearly gone white again.’

‘Baa, baa, baa,’ bleated Dixie, as the entire orchestra, like zombies, followed him blindly into the airport Gents.

Despite Knickers racing round like a collie nipping everyone’s ankles, it was half an hour before they all meandered out to the waiting coaches, eating chocolate, reading newspapers, putting new film in their cameras. Miles was absolutely fed up with them. Half of them had overslept and nearly missed the plane that morning.

‘If anyone loses their boarding passes or their hotel keys, or forgets to pay their bar bills once more, their pay will be docked,’ he yelled to each coach-load in turn. ‘And tomorrow morning I want you all to line up outside the hotel at six-thirty so we can take a roll-call.’

‘What about a roll-in-the-hay call?’ shouted Randy from the back of Moulin Rouge. As they drove past battlements and palm trees along the seafront, Dixie yelled, ‘Don’t forget to declare Hilly.’

‘Sneaks and lechers, come away, come away, come, come, come away,’ sang Cherub, going into fits of giggles which set the whole coach off.

Hilary stopped writing postcards about the cathedral in Madrid.

‘Why d’you all reduce everything to your own disgusting level?’ she hissed.

You’ll pay for this, thought Miles furiously. Every single one of you.

He was even crosser three-quarters of an hour later. As Flora was struggling up the steep, narrow cobbled street to the hotel, weighed down by a heavy suitcase, her viola and a large bottle of Fundador, presented to her by a waiter last night, she felt a hand taking her suitcase and turned in amazement. No musician ever carried anyone else’s stuff. Then she dropped the Fundador with an almighty crash, for there stood George, sweating in a pin- striped suit, and blushing as much as she was.

‘I thought you were in Rutminster?’

‘I was. I thought I’d come and wish Rodney many happy returns.’

For a moment they gazed at each other as brandy streamed down the street.

‘Sorry about the bottle,’ said George, clicking his fingers at the hotel porter to come and sweep it up.

‘Oh, it’s just good, clean Fundador,’ said Flora, belting into the hotel.

‘Fucking hell,’ said Viking, Dixie, Blue and Randy, who’d been following Flora up the hill.

‘That’s going to cut down our fun and games,’ said Blue, dropping to his knees and pretending to lick up the Fundador.

‘Why the hell isn’t he at home running the orchestra?’ said Dixie.

‘Into the ground,’ said Randy.

Disloyally, they forgot that if it hadn’t been for George’s indefatigable fund-raising efforts they would never have been able to go on tour.

‘Perhaps he’s after Abby,’ said Dixie.

‘Well, he’s not going to win the two grand,’ snapped Viking.

‘No, he’s after the Steel Elf,’ said Randy.

As Hilary handed her postcards to the hotel receptionist Viking noticed the top one was to Rannaldini in Czechoslovakia.

‘Our shit has reached Bohemia,’ he muttered to Blue. ‘I reckon Gilbert, Gwynneth, Rannaldini and Miles are all in cahoots. I better have a serious word with Rodney.’

Miles was absolutely livid to be dispatched home by George. Telling Hilary to keep an eye on things and chronicle every misdemeanour, he flew northwards to Rutminster freezing like an iceberg as he went.

Tiredness was forgotten as the orchestra dumped their bags and surged off in great expectations to meet Rodney.

The beautiful little palace of music could have been designed especially for Rodney’s birthday. Stucco horses with rolling eyes romped high above the stage. Seats rose in tiers fantastically decorated with different coloured sugar tulips. From a ceiling, embossed with scarlet-and-white roses, hung a vast Tiffany lamp, glittering with amber, emerald and kingfisher-blue glass. On the faded terracotta mural, curving round behind the stage, garlanded nymphs in long flowery dresses played flutes and harps, violins and triangles, their eyes closed in deepest trance, bewitched by their music.

‘What maidens loth? What mad pursuit?… What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? ’ murmured Flora, trying to tighten her strings with a trembling hand. What the hell was George doing here?

Rodney’s dressing-room was already piled high with coloured envelopes and brightly wrapped presents. The RSO had clubbed together and given him a Victorian station-master’s cap and a new midnight-blue velvet cloak with a cherry-red lining. A huge iced cake in the shape of a train carrying eighty candles would be wheeled on after the concert. A florist was busy weaving dark red roses and white jasmine in and out of the rostrum.

‘It’s unlucky to use red-and-white flowers,’ said Miss Parrott in alarm.

But her concern was drowned in a deafening cheer as Rodney shuffled on, Beatle cap over one eye, leaning heavily on George’s arm. The musicians who’d worked with him in the past were shocked how he’d aged, particularly when they saw what an effort it was for him to climb onto the rostrum and collapse into his chair.

But as they launched into ‘Happy Birthday’, specially orchestrated by Peter Plumpton, Rodney struggled up from his chair, stretched out his arms, putting his head on one side, and smiling with such sweetness and roguish delight, they were all reassured.

‘Oh my dear children — ’ wafting English Fern, he mopped his eyes with a lemon- yellow silk handkerchief — ‘you have no idea how excited I am to see you all again, and some, too, I haven’t met before: great artists.’ He beamed down at Julian and Dimitri. ‘Learning the cello myself has taught me how clever all you string players are.’ Then, glancing at the back of the First Violins, continued, ‘and you, pretty child, must be Noriko, and that lovely little redhead must be Flora.’

Aware of George watching from the stalls, Flora cringed into the violas with a weak smile.

Then, to even louder cheers, Rodney whipped out a ‘Save the RSO’ banner, waving it above his head.

‘We’ll have no more talk of mergers. I have written to my friend, John Merger — ’ the orchestra giggled in delight — ‘telling him it’s simply not on. What are they going to call this merged orchestra? The RSCCO? — stands for Royal Society for the Continued Cruelty to Orchestras — sums up that gruesome twosome, Gilbert and Gwynneth. I hope their ears are burning because I’m flying back to Rutminster to box them next week.

‘You are a symphony orchestra,’ he went on, fierce for a second, ‘and will remain so. As an encore tonight we will play the beginning of the second movement of Tchaik Five, one of the greatest symphonies ever written, with a great horn solo from a great player.’ He blew a kiss at Viking.

‘But as you all know that, and the other pieces, Romeo and Juliet and Don Quixote backwards, let’s play the Mozart. Not a day goes by,’ he added in a stage- whisper as Abby strolled in with her fiddle under her arm to a chorus of wolf-whistles, ‘that I don’t envy you having such a gorgeous popsy as musical director. Isn’t she lovely?’

‘She certainly is,’ bellowed Abby’s suitors.

As if she were shrugging off her role as conductor, Abby had abandoned her severe, often deliberately desexing gear, for a clinging orange vest and the shortest, tightest, brown suede skirt, just acquired in a Barcelona boutique. Her newly washed black gypsy curls danced loose down her shoulders. Terror and excitement simultaneously lit her glowing face: the heaven and hell of performance.

‘My dear,’ sighed Rodney, ‘what a time to bring those legs out of hiding. I’ll never concentrate. That was a wonderful century you made against the CCO last week, Bill,’ he went on, keeping up the patter, ‘tiddle, om, pom, pom. Did you know carthorse was an anagram of orchestra? Tiddle, om, pom, pom, ready darling?’

Abby nodded. Surreptitiously, mysteriously, always when a great star is playing, the hall fills up. Stage hands, doormen, cleaners with mops, admin staff were already gathering in the red velvet boxes and creeping into the stalls.

Rodney raised his baton a couple of inches and brought it down. There was an explosion of sound. Playing the lovely but comparatively undemanding horn accompaniment, Viking listened in wonder. No composer but