‘And there is the coldest fish,’ naughty Cherub pointed at Miles, who, up at the end of the room, was being given the biggest flea in his ear by George.
Not having been to bed for forty hours, George was, in fact, suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. He had called an emergency board meeting for one o’clock in the morning, but he was not optimistic. Rannaldini had probably bribed too many of the board for George to be able to overturn their decision to appoint him musical director. If he did, it wouldn’t save the situation. There was no way the RSO could survive even a month longer without a massive injection of cash.
George himself owed twenty million pounds to German banks at the moment, so the money couldn’t come from him. Anyway, he wanted to be with Flora, who, with Sister Rose and Miss Parrott, was now noisily teaching Dimitri and Anatole the hokey-cokey. Glancing round, she smiled at him and George felt his heart melting like a Yorkie Bar in the sun.
Meanwhile the largest plague of locusts, discovered over the Red Sea in 1889, was nothing to the way the RSO were demolishing the cold buffet. Only Julian, still violently shaking after his defiance of Rannaldini, couldn’t eat or drink a thing. Through the sound of revelry, he could hear the cannon’s opening roar of a Rannaldini rabid for vengeance.
The long top table was the only one with a seating plan. Trapped between the Princess and Lady Appleton, Rannaldini was having to be polite, but his darkly tanned face was twitching like treacle toffee coming up to the boil.
Cherub was off again.
‘That’s the biggest toad in the world,’ he said, sticking a pink tongue out at Gilbert.
‘And here comes the sexiest man,’ squeaked Nellie in excitement.
‘Rupert Campbell-Black? He’s already taken,’ said Clare, not bothering to look round.
‘Nope.’
‘Sean Bean?’
‘Nope.’
Clare swung round irritably.
‘Viking,’ she screamed.
‘Viking!’ yelled the RSO, as they joyfully and drunkenly stumbled towards him.
‘Cousin Victor,’ cried Deirdre in amazement, letting go of Boris.
But Viking, poised in the doorway, looked so tall, thin, pale and quivering with menace, that Deirdre almost crossed herself.
‘Hi, kids.’ Almost absent-mindedly, Viking pushed the orchestra out of the way, his eyes, narrowed to black thread, never leaving Rannaldini’s face.
The next moment, fleeter than any cheetah, he crossed the room to the top table and, reaching over, had grabbed Rannaldini by his suede lapels, dragging him across the white table-cloth, scattering glass, silver, china and flowers, until Rannaldini was standing beside him on the blue carpet.
‘How dare you hurt my Abigail?’ yelled Viking and, to equal cheers and screams of horror, he smashed his fist into Rannaldini’s evil mahogany face, lifting him up in a perfect parabola, so his descent onto the pudding trolley was only cushioned by Gwynneth who was piling her plate with a third helping of
The interminable, stunned silence was finally broken by Dixie.
‘That’s the only way you’ll ever get Sir Roberto to lie on top of you, Gwynnie,’ he shouted.
The RSO collapsed with laughter.
‘Partners in cream, partners in cream,’ they chorused as Rannaldini and Gwynneth floundered in a sea of chocolate, sticky fruit and meringue.
But the laughter died on their lips, as Rannaldini’s minders, Clive and Nathan, moved in with deadly swiftness.
‘Look out, Viking,’ yelled Julian.
‘Run,’ shrieked Cousin Deirdre.
It was sage advice.
Viking realized he couldn’t take on both Clive and Nathan, particularly as a shiny dark object glinted menacingly in Nathan’s huge hand.
‘Get him,’ hissed Rannaldini, rubbing Black Forest gateau out of his eyes.
And Viking was off, darting through the little tables, sending a huge vase of bronze chrysanthemums flying, catching Trevor and Jennifer in flagrante behind the carving trolley, out through a side-door, up a flight of stairs.
Shouting voices and footsteps pounding after him sent him hurtling along a corridor. There was no time to catch the lift, the footsteps were getting nearer. At the end of the corridor were stone stairs and, panting down seven flights and sidling across the lounge, Viking found himself in the lobby.
But as he paused to catch his breath, Clive emerged from the lift. Dummying past him, Viking hurled himself into the revolving doors, only to find Nathan leering at him on the other side, still waving the same menacing shiny object.
With huge yuccas to left and right of the door, there was no escape. Wincing as Clive grabbed his arm, Viking turned, looking into the vicious, unpitying face of Death.
‘The basstard had it coming,’ muttered Viking.
For a second or two, Death stared at him, then suddenly warmed up and smiled almost affectionately.
‘Couldn’t agree with you more, dear,’ lisped Clive. ‘Been waiting ten years for someone to give Rannaldini his comeuppance. May I shake you by the hand?’
Then, as Viking’s jaw dropped, Nathan bounded in through the revolving doors with a grin as wide as the keys on a Steinway, and thrust the menacing object into Viking’s hand.
‘You dropped your wallet, man.’
‘We’d very much like to buy you a drink,’ said Clive.
‘It’s very generous of you both,’ Viking started to shake, not entirely with laughter.
Through the revolving doors, he could see his taxi-driver polishing off a pork pie and a can of lager to sustain him after the first leg of the journey from Holyhead.
‘I’m on my way to Heathrow,’ said Viking, ‘but perhaps I’ve josst got time for a quick one.’
Rannaldini, swearing vengeance, had disappeared to wash
‘Call for you, Mr Hungerford.’
As George lifted the receiver, everyone around him could hear the frantic squawking as if a hen had just laid a dinosaur’s egg.
‘Mr Hungerford,’ cried Miss Priddock, ‘Ay saw you in the audience. Thank goodness you’re back. An amazin’ thing has happened. I don’t know quaite how to tell you.’
‘Try,’ said George unhelpfully.
But as he listened, his I-don’t-want-to-be-bothered-with-paper-clips scowl creased into a huge smile.
‘That is amazing, Miss P. Woonderful in fact. Are you at home? I’ll call you later. Yes, it was great — Marcus won.’
As he switched off the telephone, he turned to Flora: ‘Well done, John Droommond.’
‘He’s caught the biggest rat in the world?’ giggled Flora.
Cherub had reached the prehistoric chapter, his finger moving shakily along the line: ‘The largessht exshtinct animal in the world wash the two hundred and fifty ton supersaurus,’ he informed his audience.
‘And the most extinct ensemble in the world,’ said George draining his glass of brandy, ‘is Rannaldini’s Super Orchestra.’
CODA
