The sight of Bianca, enchanting in a tartan, smocked wool dress with a white collar and dark green tights, gave Helen a legitimate excuse to express her jealousy of Taggie with a burst of anger.
‘Is that wise? It’s a long programme?’
Taggie flushed. ‘Bianca adores Marcus, she’d have been heartbroken if I’d left her behind. If she starts acting up, I’ll take her out, I promise. Hallo, Monica.’ Taggie turned in delight to embrace Lady Baddingham, for whose dinner parties she had often cooked before she was married. ‘Isn’t this exciting? Edith’s been so wonderful to arrange all this for Marcus.’
‘Edith’s hopping mad not to be able to make it,’ said Monica, a big-boned handsome woman, whose red veins clashed merrily with her emerald-green coat, ‘Is this one of your smalls?’
She beamed down at Bianca. ‘Isn’t she adorable? You can’t start them off at concerts too early.’
Helen could have screamed.
‘Where’s Rupert?’ she snapped.
‘He should be here,’ Taggie looked at her watch. ‘I hope the fog isn’t bad.’
‘About a hundred and twenty,’ said Miss Smallwood counting heads. ‘Not bad for a beastly February evening. It’s nearly half-past, we ought to start.’
Marcus was hunched over the table in his dressing-room, panic about an impending asthma attack making him even more breathless. He couldn’t let everyone down again. His reflection glittered silver with sweat in the mirror. Then Helen had burst in in a rage.
‘Absolutely typical, your bloody father’s helicopter’s been grounded by fog. He and Lysander rang from the M4. They won’t make it before the interval, if at all. So, we’re going to start.’
A great calm swept over Marcus. At least Rupert wouldn’t be bored witless or sneer at the low turn-out. Quickly he washed the sweat off his face and straightened his tie.
Nerves overwhelmed him again as he fell up the steps to the platform and sidled towards the piano, hangdog as the last person picked in a team.
‘Please smile, Marcus,’ begged Miss Chatterton.
‘Will you nudge me when I’m meant to clap?’ Taggie whispered to Monica Baddingham.
With a brief shy nod to acknowledge the rattle of applause, Marcus sat down, fiddled with the height of the piano-stool, gave his fingers a last wipe.
‘Hair’s too short,’ muttered a member of his fan club.
‘I like it, more butch,’ said another.
‘He’s utterly gorgeous any way,’ sighed a third.
On her right Flora noticed an old man in a beret getting out a score.
For a second Marcus sat clasping his hands to stop them shaking, then one seemed to escape like a white dove above the keys, then it fell in a skirl of bright notes, a weightless shimmer of sound and the Scarlatti was away.
Forgetting the cold, members of the Cotchester Musical Society smiled in relief. The estate workers and the grooms looked at each other in amazement — was this their sweet diffident Marcus?
At the end of the Scarlatti, Marcus got a splendid round of applause, augmented by the whooping, cheering and stamping feet of his friends from college.
‘Good boy, Marcus,’ piped up Bianca when there was a pause which set everyone laughing and clapping again.
As Marcus came on to play the
How could such unleashed forces be contained in such a slender, youthful body, wondered the audience, marvelling, too, at every angelic ripple of sound as Marcus captured not only the nobility but also plumbed the extraordinary depths and dramas of the piece.
Part of the intense pleasure for Marcus’s friends was to see the almost unearthly happiness on his face. Flora clutched herself in ecstasy and looking round noticed a tear like an icicle glittering on the wrinkled cheek of the old man in the beret.
The middle movement was so beautiful as theme and variations chased each other round the keyboard that the tears sprung in Marcus’s eyes, too.
But, as he lingered over the runs and pauses which bridge the second and last movement, he told himself that he must keep something in reserve for the fireworks of the finale.
Allegro non Troppo, Beethoven had warned. He had known the dangers that awaited the unwary pianist, the temptation to show off and run out of puff.
Marcus was usually nervous as the end approached, like the last looming fence in the show-jumping ring. This evening he was utterly confident. But, as he tensed himself to leap into the fray, there was a kerfuffle at the back of the hall.
‘You can’t go in now,’ cried Miss Smallwood.
‘I can do what I fucking like,’ drawled an all-too-familar voice. ‘We’ve come all the way from America to hear this bloody concert.’ And Rupert stalked up the aisle, trailing a red-faced Lysander.
‘Daddy,’ crowed Bianca.
Rupert proceeded to kiss an enraged Taggie, climb over her to his seat and shove Lysander into the one beyond next to Kitty.
Last time Rupert had been to a concert was at the end of term at Bagley Hall, when the auditorium had been packed to bursting because it was compulsory for all four hundred and fifty pupils, their parents and eighty teachers to attend.
A hundred odd people huddled in the stalls, many of them dingily old and plain, didn’t seem a very satisfactory turn-out.
‘Not many people here,’ he muttered to Taggie.
‘Shut up,’ she hissed.
‘Tut up, Daddy,’ reproached Bianca.
Glancing up, Rupert saw Marcus, huddled over the piano staring at him in terror, a baby hare caught in the headlights.
‘Carry on, Marcus,’ he said sharply. Then, turning to Taggie, demanded, ‘Why didn’t you bring Xav, and what’s she doing out of school?’ He glared at Tabitha now engrossed in a new Dick Francis.
From then on it was nightmare. The endless swirling semi-quavers of the last movement escaped in all directions like ants under a jet of boiling water. Marcus’s fingers seemed drunk, had changed shape. Icy cold and sweating they scrabbled and missed Helen’s clean keys.
Then Rupert’s mobile rang and Lysander, who’d been at the brandy on the way down, couldn’t stop laughing and loudly said, ‘Oouch’ when Kitty kicked him on the ankle. Distracted, Marcus played a repeat for the third time, wrong notes clattering down like hailstones.
Surreptitously, Rupert opened a catalogue to check the prices his yearlings had reached. Forgetting himself, Lysander suddenly said: ‘That was a bloody good horse.’
‘Tut up, Lysander,’ said Bianca reprovingly.
Aware of his father’s utter boredom, Marcus lost his place and ground to a halt. There was a dreadful silence. Marcus put his face in his hands.
‘Take your time,’ called out Monica Baddingham kindly.
Somehow Marcus stumbled through the prestissimo and fled to his dressing-room.
Bolting backstage, Flora found him slumped, white and shaking on the sofa bed, his breath coming in great wheezing gasps.
‘I can’t go back, not with Dad there.’
‘It was wonderful — you were playing better than ever before. You can’t let that bastard get to you, you’ve got to remount and finish the course.’
‘Anyone for orange squash or coffee?’ Miss Smallwood popped her white bun round the door.
Marcus clenched his fists.
‘He needs something stronger.’ Flora drew a half-empty brandy bottle out of her pocket.
‘He can’t have alcohol,’ said a horrified Helen who was dripping around like a wet hen.
