Having located the manuscript under his pillow, Deirdre, who was wearing a red satin nightgown, invited Boris back to her room for a night-cap.
‘You know I’d never vote for a Brit,’ she told him fiercely, ‘but I’m sorry your friend Marcus can’t make it.’
For a second Marcus thought he had gone to heaven, when he briefly regained consciousness and found sweet Sister Rose smiling down at him. She’d just returned from the day-shift with a pile of CDs. If anyone could make him heterosexual…
‘Here’s something to cheer you up,’ she whispered.
The next moment Prokofiev’s introduction to
‘Oh help, I’m sorry, Nemerovsky danced that at Rutminster, didn’t he?’ Turning off the CD player, she took Marcus’s hand. ‘I was in the audience. My boyfriend and I took the coach all the way down to Rutminster to watch him. He’s such a hero. I understand why you love him.’ She gave Marcus’s fingers a squeeze. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being gay, you just need to accept that there isn’t only one way to be in life.’
SIXTY-SEVEN
At the start of the afternoon’s rehearsal with Benny and Natalia, the orchestra enraged Rannaldini by waving ‘Save the RSO’ banners and all wearing hastily printed ‘Viva L’Appassionata’ T-shirts.
Miles rushed up in a frenzy.
‘Take those bloody things off.’
To which Nellie promptly obliged, showing off splendid duo-tanned breasts.
‘How could you, Nell?’ stormed Militant Moll.
‘I think Rannaldini’s rather sexy,’ pouted Nellie.
‘If you collaborate, Nellie Nicholson,’ hissed Candy, ‘we’ll shave all your hair off.’
By the time they’d changed into less subversive gear, Blue noticed that Cyril, who’d been knocking back Bumpy’s Scrumpy at lunch-time, was missing. Blue was about to send Lincoln to find him, when yet another highly embarrassed French horn player from the CCO slid into the Fourth Horn’s place.
‘Where’s Cyril, Knickers?’ shouted Blue.
Knickers was too distraught to answer. If Rannaldini kept feeding in extras, he’d be out of a job.
‘Cyril’s been sacked,’ said Rannaldini coldly.
‘For the second day running he was drunk when he arrived at the hall,’ said Miles sanctimoniously.
Blue rose to his feet.
‘I’m going too, then.’
‘Sit,’ howled Rannaldini. There were demanding solos for the Second Horn in both the evening’s concertos.
‘Don’t talk to me like Barbara Woodhouse,’ snapped Blue, then all the colour ebbed from his face as his mobile rang.
Only Cathie knew the number. With a trembling hand, he switched it on.
‘Blue.’
‘My darling.’
‘I’m leaving Carmine.’
She had piled the children, the ducks, the hens, Tiger the cat, and all the bulb bowls into the car.
‘Go to The Bordello. Mrs Diggory’s got the key,’ said Blue softly. ‘There’s plenty of whisky and tins in the larder and lots of catfood. The ducks and hens won’t hurt in the kitchen till I get there. I’ll be as quick as possible. I love you. Yippee!’ yelled Blue as he switched off his mobile. ‘Yippee!’
Momentarily roused out of their despondency, the RSO looked at him in amazement.
‘Where are you going?’ screamed Rannaldini.
‘Over the hills and as far away as possible,’ said Blue. ‘I’m not playing your fucking concert.’
‘Then you’re fired.’
‘Good, you can send on my redundancy money.’
‘Is Blue drunk, too?’ whispered Cherub in awe to Davie Buckle.
‘Only with ‘appiness,’ said Davie.
Rupert’s and Taggie’s romantic forty-eight-hour break in an ancient castle high up in the Czechoslovakian forests had not been a success. Taggie had had a punishing eighteen months anyway looking after Bianca, and coping with Xav undergoing a final and completely successful operation to straighten his eyes. She had then had to keep him quiet and happy during his convalescence. But she had had a far more difficult task trying to soothe Rupert as he became increasingly outraged and miserable over the defection of both Marcus and Tabitha, although he had been far too proud to approach either of them. Abby’s interview with Beattie in
Rupert, on the other hand, was aware that he had been giving his sweet wife a rotten time, and had insisted they went away for a break without Bianca and Xav. He was then appalled how much he missed them.
‘They’re bloody well coming with us next time,’ he told Taggie as the helicopter landed on the racecourse at Pardubika.
‘And Marcus and Tabitha, too,’ Taggie wanted to plead. But she didn’t want to set Rupert off before a big race.
The course itself resembled the park of some great house, with massive beech hedges, yew colonnades, long lakes and banks acting as fences. Goodness — they looked massive.
The off for the Czech Grand National was in an hour and a quarter. Rupert went straight to check on Penscombe Pride, who’d spent the night in his large, luxurious, dark blue lorry. But before he could look at the horse, Dizzy, his head groom, beckoned him up the steps into the living-room area of the lorry.
‘Thank God you’ve come.’
‘What’s the matter? It’s not Pridie?’
‘You better see this. I’m sorry, Rupert, but the Press are everywhere.’
Rupert took one look at yesterday’s
It was as though he’d always known it.
‘So?’ he turned on Dizzy.
‘And Flora Seymour’s just rung from Appleton,’ stammered Dizzy, quailing in the blast of such ice-cold rage. ‘She says Marcus has collapsed with the most dreadful asthma attack. He’s in intensive care at Northladen General. Helen didn’t want you to be “bothered”, but I think he’s really, really ill. He’s been on a ventilator for twenty-four hours. He’s had to pull out of the piano competition,’ Dizzy’s voice cracked. She had known Marcus since he was three. He’d always been such a kind gentle little boy. ‘Flora left a number,’ she added.
‘Well, get her, for fuck’s sake.’
Having taken in the caption ‘
‘
Ripping the pages in his fury as he found the place, Rupert discovered other headlines:
‘THE STATELY HOMO. L’APPASSIONATA FLEES. RED IN HIS BED. A PRINCIPAL WITH NO PRINCIPLES’ above huge photographs of himself, Abby and Alexei. There was even a picture of Woodbine Cottage with a caption:
