Appassionata

biddy in a long grey overcoat, who had the face of a rather over-excited dromedary and a drifting white bun like an icepack on top of her head.

Helen introduced her as Miss Smallwood, the social secretary.

‘Our artist,’ bleated Miss Smallwood eagerly. ‘Are you like your father? Well, perhaps not,’ she sounded slightly disappointed. ‘I was wondering if you could give a little talk to our members before the concert.’

‘A-a-absolutely n-n-not,’ stammered Marcus. ‘And Mum, Georgie and Declan can’t make it.’

All he wanted to do was to get at the piano, slippery keys and all. He found the sound hard and bright in the treble, but after having ‘Lydia Pinker’ and ‘American Pie’ bashed out on it all last night, it was very woolly in the bass. He would have to pound the keys to make the left-hand lines in the Appassionata clear enough.

Nor, unlike the Cotswold Hunt, could the musical society afford to heat the hall which was getting colder by the minute. Marcus couldn’t play if he were cold.

He couldn’t play now. Helen, stationing herself bossily round the hall to test the accoustics, kept snapping his concentration.

‘I can’t hear you from here. You’re very faint from here.’ Then up in the gallery, where she found a white bra with Tabitha’s name-tape inside. ‘You really must project more from here.’

He’d reached screaming pitch when the piano tuner rolled up and proceeded to bang out Chopin’s Grande Polonaise far better than he had, so Marcus retreated to the upright in his dressing-room to run through certain tricky passages only to be interrupted by Helen again.

Venturer Television, BBC Cotchester, The Times and Classical Music all wanted to interview him. Wasn’t it exciting? As he wasn’t prepared to give a little talk, she’d arranged a press conference with sandwiches and glasses of wine.

Marcus was aghast.

‘I can’t, Mum, for Christ’s sake. They’re only here because of Dad. I have to go into myself before a concert and be completely alone with the music.’

‘Uh-uh,’ Helen shook her head playfully. ‘You’re not going to have a moment to feel nervous.’

You mean you’re not risking a re-run of the cock-up at Malise’s funeral, thought Marcus.

‘We’re jolly well going to show Rupert this time,’ said Helen.

Marcus started to shake and wheeze and took a couple of puffs from his inhaler. He’d already used it too much in the last forty-eight hours. His throat was very sore. He had the beginnings of a rash round his mouth.

Out of the window in the dusk, he could see the great shadow of the cathedral like a warning finger, and the wind pleating the flooded water meadows and lashing the trailing twigs of the weeping willows almost horizontal.

Marcus managed to smile at the Press, but he could hardly remember his date of birth. Only when they asked him which pianists he most admired he had no difficulty in saying Emil Gilels, Myra Hess and Solomon and, among the living, Pablo Gonzales. As he suspected, the Press were only interested in him in relation to Rupert.

But was trying to master that big black brute of a piano all that different to getting the best out of a difficult horse? he wondered. As a child Marcus’s worst nightmare had been going into restaurants or to airports with Rupert, who so instantly and effortlessly attracted the limelight. It was ironic that he had chosen a profession entirely dependent on limelight. But it was the only way he could express himself and more recently, the only way he could tell Abby what he felt about her. But it was not to be. As the Press were trailing out, Abby telephoned.

‘I’m so sorry, Marcus, but Rodney’s been hospitalized with bronchitis. I guess it isn’t serious but I daren’t leave him. I know you’ll be great and see you very soon.’

As Marcus put down the telephone almost weeping with disappointment, Miss Smallwood handed him some drooping crimson flowers.

‘Hellebores from Dame Hermione’s own garden,’ she said reverently. ‘Her gardener brought them all the way from Paradise. Dame Hermione wishes you all the luck in the world, but daren’t risk a cold in this weather, such a caring person.’

By seven o’clock the hall was filling up with members of the musical society, variations on Miss Smallwood in flat shoes, long coats with triangles of brightly coloured scarves around their necks, all huddling together for warmth. Any hell fires fanned by the Cotswold Hunt Ball had receded long ago.

Two more telephone apologies came from Rupert’s friend, Basil Baddingham and the Bishop of Cotchester, who both claimed to be laid low by the same bug. As a note of bathos the hunt saboteurs had got the night wrong and rolled up to wave placards saying: ‘Cotswold Butchers’ and ‘Don’t victimize our vixens’ and generally hassle the Hunt Ball. Learning Rupert, who’d hunted with the Cotswold all his life, was expected later, they decided to hang around.

As Marcus changed into his dark suit and had fearful difficulty putting cuff-links into his grey-and-white striped shirt, he noticed the coloured windows of Cotchester Cathedral lit up for Evensong.

He should be the one on his knees praying for his hubris in thinking he could play the Appassionata and the Siberian Suite. Even the Chopin was so clear and linear, it gave you nowhere to hide and the left-hand part was just as challenging as the right.

Having showered and washed her hair, Helen had changed into the gold silk dress and wanted approval.

‘You look stunning, Mum.’

‘You really think so, and it goes with these shoes?’

‘Perfect,’ said Marcus dutifully.

‘I guess I had to have something new. It’s your first professional date.’

She has no idea, thought Marcus in despair, as he put on a crocus-yellow tie, bought for him by Flora to jazz up his whole outfit.

‘Isn’t that rather loud?’ began Helen.

There was a rat-tat-tat on the door.

‘Fifteen minutes, Mr Black,’ cried Miss Smallwood, ‘and Lady Baddingham’s just arrived,’ she added excitedly. ‘But she’s afraid Dame Edith has been struck down by the same dreaded lurgy as our bishop.’

Marcus fought an hysterical desire to laugh.

Monica Baddingham, Basil’s sister-in-law, had caused an uproar last year when she had walked out on her vicious venal husband of nearly twenty-five years’ standing and moved in with Dame Edith.

Such was Monica’s popularity in the area — she had worked endlessly for charity and been kind to everyone and she seemed so blissfully happy with Dame Edith — that the scandal had blown over. Helen would normally have disapproved violently of such bohemian escapades, but realizing how influential Monica had suddenly become in the music world, she scuttled out to say hallo.

She was less amused by the arrival of a very jocund company from the Academy who conga-ed in led by Flora. In order to drink on the way down they had hired a minibus and had now stationed themselves on the left side of the hall so Marcus’s ravishing female fan club could drool over him while he played.

Boris, also on the bus, was in a frightful state of nerves. His hair looked even more electrocuted than usual. He wore a grey track suit, the loose trousers of which kept falling down his chunky body, and his suede feet seemed to curl round each other like bear claws.

‘I don’t want Siberian Suite to be hackled.’

He was longing to sit next to Helen who meanly introduced him to Marcus’s teacher, Miss Chatterton, so they could be nervous together.

‘Do tell Marcus,’ Miss Chatterton begged Helen, ‘that the audience will only enjoy it if Marcus smiles and enjoys it, too.’

Not many people, thought Flora in disappointment. It was crucial to have bums on seats, because anyone who contemplated booking Marcus in future would check with Cotchester Musical Society whether he pulled the crowds.

Oh thank God, here was Taggie looking ravishing as always, in a dark red suit and rather tentatively leading Bianca by the hand. They were followed by Kitty, Mrs Bodkin, all Rupert’s grooms and estate workers and finally, Tabitha, who might have been very jealous of Marcus if she had not received seventeen Valentines and been danced off her feet at the Hunt Ball.