Appassionata

Reliability was therefore considered even more important than talent; someone who would carry out these engagements without letting them down, someone who wouldn’t make mistakes in recordings.

Rannaldini was soon at work influencing the jury.

‘Regretfully,’ he said winningly, ‘I must abstain from voting for my dear stepson, Marcus, but speaking totally impartially, although it pains me to do so, I feel the boy did not project enough, particularly in the Waldstein, where he gave a very flat two-dimensional performance.’

‘Bollocks,’ thundered Dame Edith. ‘He played exquisitely in the Chaconne, and in the first half of the Waldstein he had something quite beyond the notes.’

‘He had a memory lapse,’ snapped Rannaldini, who now that he had Dame Edith’s job, didn’t need to suck up to her any more.

‘Probably just nerves,’ snapped back Dame Edith.

She felt Marcus should go through. Pablo and Bruce Kennedy agreed. Pablo said he would resign if Marcus didn’t. The Russian, Sergei, deliberately voting against Bruce Kennedy, said he would resign if Marcus did. The Waldstein had no passion. He agreed with Rannaldini the boy was a ‘veemp’. Two of the old bids from Poland and Yugoslavia, who’d been chatted up by Rannaldini, and accepted promises of help from him for several of their pupils, voted against Marcus as well. So did Hermione, because Rannaldini told her to, and Deirdre O’Neill, because she hated the English. So did the vast Ukrainian because he was voting tactically. The ancient Swedish judge, who had only been kept awake after lunch by Benny’s banging, and nodded off afterwards, felt guilty he’d slept through the Chaconne and gave Marcus an amazing ten out of ten. The French judge loathed both Rannaldini and Sergei and had a crush on Dame Edith, so she gave him nine.

Lili voted against him because Rannaldini pinched her bottom in the lift and promised her a concert in New York. Ernesto promptly voted for Marcus because he was jealous of Rannaldini, so did Boris, which tied the score and a casting vote was needed.

‘Blodwyn,’ purred Rannaldini.

Lady Appleton looked up from a long list: Warm-up piano to be delivered, seven outside broadcast vans to be parked, seven microphones… and thought her name had never been pronounced so seductively.

‘Sorry, Maestro?’

‘Do you theenk Marcus Campbell-Black should go through?’ Surely not said those compelling inquisitorial night-black eyes.

‘Yes,’ said Lady Appleton.

Her friend, Mrs Bateson, had said the boy was a genius.

Taking Jennifer for a widdle in the town square, Dame Edith passed Marcus gazing into space with such a look of desolation on his face.

‘You’re through, you chump,’ she yelled. ‘And I agree — that piano was got at.’

All the favoured candidates — Han Chai, Carl the jokey homespun Texan, Anatole the moody Russian, Natalia and Benny — had made it. Marcus was the only outsider. A few tears were shed by the disappointed contestants. Lord Gargrave, on whose piano a brilliant German candidate had practised, was so upset the poor fellow hadn’t gone through that he invited him to stay on for a weekend’s shooting.

Euphoric that they had two days off before the finals, Edith, Irish Deirdre, Boris and Pablo Gonzales, who’d never had Lancashire Hot Pot before, dined together at the Dog and Duck on the edge of the moor.

‘If I see another pair of crossed hands I go cuckoo,’ said Pablo, collapsing into a chair and handing his sticks to the waiter.

‘Bloody awful dump that Prince of Wales,’ said Edith, splashing red wine into everyone’s glasses. ‘Lousy grub, piddling rooms and a fax takes two minutes from Kenya and half a day to get upstairs. How’s Lear?’ she asked Boris.

‘Nearly finished. Now I wonder what to do next.’

‘Wheech is the largest newt in the world?’ asked Pablo who refused to be parted from his Guinness Book of Records.

‘Probably me,’ said Deirdre, who was already well away.

‘Wheech is the fattest cat?’

‘Rannaldini,’ said Dame Edith, smothering a roll with butter. ‘I’m sure he’s rigging the votes. Blodwyn’s such an innocent. I voted for that German boy.’

‘So deed I,’ said Pablo, ‘I even stop reading thees wondairful book when he play the Prokofiev.’

‘So did Deirdre and I,’ said Boris. ‘He still didn’t make it.’

‘At least we all got Marcus through,’ said Dame Edith with satisfaction.

‘I didn’t,’ said Deirdre stonily. ‘God protect me if I ever vote for a Brit.’

‘Don’t be unsporting,’ boomed Edith, waving to the waiter for some more red.

‘You weren’t married to one,’ snapped Deirdre.

I nearly am, thought Edith.

Even though she and Monica were running up massive bills ringing each other every day, she didn’t believe it were possible to miss anyone as much. The fax that had taken so long to get upstairs was Monica’s confirmation of their purchase of a cottage with a stretch of river in the west of Scotland. The prospect of Monica in breast waders made Edith’s mind mist over, and she herself would be able to compose full time. She hadn’t written anything she was really proud of since The Persuaders in 1980.

But she felt dreadfully guilty that like George Hungerford she had sold her orchestra down the river for love. Once she had announced her absolute determination to retire, the CCO had been forced to look for a new musical director and had searched no further than Rannaldini. Both orchestra and management had voted him in unanimously.

‘He’s the only person who could ever take your place, Edith,’ said Hugo.

The bastard had seduced the lot of them with his alarming charm. But if Edith hadn’t wanted Monica and out so desperately, she would have tried harder to dissuade them.

She was brought back to earth by Deirdre’s grumbling.

‘Lancashire Hot Pot is exactly like Irish Stew. Talk about another British rip-off.’

‘Very delicious though,’ said Pablo with his mouth full. ‘Do you know which is most venomous snake in world?’

‘Rannaldini,’ they all said in unison.

SIXTY-FIVE

Marcus was flabbergasted that he’d got so far. He was also ashamed how much he was enjoying himself. The bracing northern winds seemed to have blown away all his worries and obsessions, and more importantly his asthma. He got on very well with all the other finalists, and they had great fun on their two days off before the final, sightseeing, eating fish and chips, playing ping-pong and cheering Anatole on in the pub talent competition.

Marcus was relieved Helen had temporarily shoved off to London. He was also tremendously touched when the huge Ukrainian judge took him aside. As the contestant from the Ukraine had gone out in the last round, he no longer had a vested interest. The majority of the jury, he felt, despite Rannaldini, were, in reality rooting for Marcus.

‘We vant you to vin, but we theenk you must change to heavyveight concerto, Brahms One or Two or Rachmaninov Three, something more explosive, more dramatic. The Schumann may be the graveyard of musicians, but it sound very easy. It ees not theatrical enough to impress jury or bring audience to their foots.’

Marcus’s eyes filled with tears. He felt the kind words had somehow come straight from Alexei. But beyond thanking the big Ukrainian profusely, he explained he’d worked on the Schumann so he’d stay with it.

‘If there ees any chance to win, zee English start to feel sorry for other contestants,’ sighed the