Appassionata

Ukrainian.

The finals would take place on Saturday and Sunday, with Carl, Anatole and Han Chai playing their concertos on the first night, and Benny, Natalia and Marcus playing on the second.

Abby had rung Marcus with a change of plan, saying she’d be leaving the States the next night and flying straight to Manchester, arriving in Appleton first thing on Saturday morning to rehearse with the first three finalists in the afternoon.

America, Abby told him, had been terrific, and it was even more terrific he’d made the final.

‘The only problem, I guess, is that Woodbine Cottage has been burglarized. Thank God the cats were in kennels, and they didn’t take anything except the TV and the video, although the cops fingerprinted Flora’s vibrator.’

‘What about my studio?’ said Marcus, who’d gone cold thinking of Alexei’s letters under the floorboards.

‘No, nothing appears to be gone from there.’

Marcus was ashamed how relieved he felt to have another forty-eight hours without Abby. Mrs Bateson, jubilant he had gone through, cooked him roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and apple tart for lunch, and gave him a little jet cat for luck.

‘You must really project on Sunday,’ she begged him, ‘you’ve no idea how absorbent the good people of Appleton are when they crowd into the town hall.’

On Friday morning there was a press conference, where naturally the attention focused on Marcus.

‘I’m so knocked out to make the finals,’ he told the journalists, ‘that as long as I play well on Sunday, I don’t mind too much about winning.’

In the afternoon, the finalists were taken for a drive over the bleak, but ravishing countryside, which now flamed with bracken. They ended up having supper in the Dog and Duck which was a quarter of a mile down the road from St Theresa’s.

Marcus, who’d been asked by Lady Appleton to keep an eye on Anatole, was having great difficulty keeping the Russian sober. He must go to bed early if he were to cope with Brahms’ mighty First Concerto tomorrow. But Anatole had got even deeper into the pub talent competition and wouldn’t stop singing “Knees up Muzzer Brown”, with the landlord. Han Chai had fallen in love with the homespun Carl, who still couldn’t decide whether to play in his plaid jacket or a borrowed DJ. They sat holding hands drinking Coca-Cola in the corner. Benny, who had forty-eight hours to sober up before he played his concerto, was knocking back Bacardi and drunkenly propositioning Natalia, who, looking at her watch, was wondering if Rannaldini was back from London, and would somehow tonight infiltrate himself into her bedroom at St Theresa’s like a cat burglar. She quivered with desire. No-one had ever been so marvellous to her.

Before the competition he had also given her some beta-blockers to calm her nerves.

‘And do see eef you can persuade Marcus to have one before he plays, but don’t say they come from me; sadly my stepson ’ates me, and wouldn’t touch them. But I so long for heem to do well.’

How could anyone hate Rannaldini? wondered Natalia.

Marcus sat ekeing out a glass of red, still stunned at reaching the finals, idly playing ‘To the Life Boats, to the Life Boats’, on the pub table wondering what had happened to the soft pedal on Wednesday, wishing he could feel more enthusiastic about Abby arriving tomorrow. Across the pub he could see Anatole thumping out ‘You are My Sunshine’, his eyes creased with laughter above the high cheek-bones. Marcus felt hollow with longing for Alexei.

It was several seconds before he realized the barman was shouting, ‘Marcus Campbell-Black. Phone for Marcus Campbell-Black’.

Marcus winced. He had insisted on dropping the ‘Campbell’ for the competition. But hearing his famous name, people nudged and stared as he edged through the tables. He had told Alexei he never wanted to hear from him again but always when the telephone rang he prayed it might be him. Equally irrationally he had prayed all week for a good-luck card. The telephone was in an alcove by the stairs. The walls were covered with numbers.

‘Hallo,’ he picked up the receiver, ‘you’ll have to speak up, there’s a hell of a din going on here.’

‘Hi, Marcus. I gather congratulations are in order on your engagement to Abby Rosen. Lucky sod, when are you getting married?’

Hearing the whining, thin, ingratiating, very common, male voice, Marcus started to tremble.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘It’s The Scorpion.’

‘I’ve nothing to say.’ Marcus was drenched in sweat.

‘We wanted to run a little story about you getting to the finals of the Appleton. Abby must be knocked out. It’ll be hard for her not to favour you.’

Marcus was about to hang up, when the voice thickened and became even oilier, almost lascivious with menace. ‘Another thing. We’ve got in our possession some letters to you written by Alexei Nemerovsky.’

Marcus couldn’t breathe, his crashing heart seemed to have filled his lungs and windpipe.

‘Hallo, are you there? They make very interesting reading. Things were obviously pretty passionate between you, particularly in Prague when you broke the bed.’

‘I don’t know what you’re taking about,’ croaked Marcus. ‘I never wrote any letters to Alexei, he never wrote any to me.’

‘Oh come, come. Some of them are very poetic: “My little white dove lying warm and no longer frightened in my hands”.’

‘They’re fakes,’ wheezed Marcus. ‘P-please burn them, My father and mother… no-one could be interested.’

‘I think they could. It’s very much in the public interest. Two household names like your dad and Nemerovsky, not to mention L’Appassionata, lovely girl, Abby, tried to top herself last time a man cheated on her. Think you’ve been quite fair to her?’

‘No, yes, it must have been you who broke into the cottage.’ Oh Christ, he shouldn’t have said that. ‘You don’t have any right to publish those letters.’

‘That’s a matter for the lawyers. We’re going with the story anyway. We just wanted to give you the chance to put your point of view to us.’ The voice became suddenly cosy, the mental nurse about to hand over the valium. ‘We’re talking six figures, I’m sure you could use the money.’

‘No, no,’ Marcus was frantic. ‘Please burn them. I’m not anyone important.’

‘You’re Rupert’s son, mate,’ said Torquemada chillingly. ‘Does he know you’re gay?’

Marcus gave a sob and dropped the telephone, leaving it clattering against the wall. He was desperately fighting for breath. Perhaps it would be better if he did die.

Choking, sobbing, he stumbled through the night back to St Theresa’s. He kept slipping on wet leaves, and fell over twice. Fortunately the foyer was temporarily deserted. Marcus tried to ring Alexei, but there was no answer. Abby would be on the way to the airport by now. Rupert was at the Czech Grand National. Marcus had read it in The Times that morning. Penscombe Pride was running in the big race on Sunday, just to prove he wasn’t past it.

Where was Helen? Marcus tried to gather his thoughts. Oh Christ, he couldn’t tell Helen.

Crawling into bed, pulling the bedclothes over his head, gasping for breath, fighting an advancing tidal wave of panic, he waited for the dawn and the army of reporters who, like a slavering pack of hounds, would tear him to pieces. How was he going to face Abby, Helen and, worst of all, Rupert?

As soon as it was light, he got up, and staggered into Appleton to get the papers. The temperature had dropped, bringing winter. The glowing horse-chestnut tree outside his room had been stripped in a day. Like a burst pipe in a distant room, he could hear the leaves rustling down in the park. As he passed the lake, there was a dull thud, and a figure leapt up in front of him. Marcus cringed, imagining a lurking reporter, but it was only a heron. Rising with flapping wings like a biplane, it carried a wriggling carp in its mouth.

I’m that fish, but without its innocence, thought Marcus in horror. It would be so much easier for everyone if he topped himself. He had to stop every ten yards to get his breath. He was wheezing like the kind of broken- winded old chaser his father would have dispatched to the knackers.

As he reached a newsagents on the edge of town the gutters were full of beech leaves like rivers of blood. In a garden opposite a large magpie strutted across the lawn. Self-satisfied, rapacious in its white tie and tails, it was