Appassionata

Flora looked round for a tooth mug.

‘He’s got to relax. This’ll zap the asthma much quicker.’

The Cotchester Musical Society didn’t have a licence, so Rupert, who couldn’t understand why Taggie was so cross when he’d bust a gut to get there, swept Lysander off to the Bar Sinister, Basil Baddingham’s dive in the High Street. Most of Marcus’s fan club followed them in wonder. By the time they returned, Marcus had dispatched the Chopin adequately and was now playing The Bee’s Wedding.

Rupert proceeded to get out his blue silk handkerchief and pretend to be trying to catch the bumble bee, which reduced Lysander to even more helpless laughter.

‘Stop it,’ hissed Taggie over the applause at the end. ‘If Bianca can behave herself, you two bloody well can.’

At the prospect of Boris’s Siberian Suite many of the audience, including four girls who’d come in off the street mistakenly hoping it might be warmer inside, hadn’t bothered to return from the pub.

Cheered by another slug of brandy, ignoring the bewilderment of the audience, Marcus kicked off playing the suite quite beautifully. Boris was in ecstasy, delighted that in sympathy, the rain was rattling the window-panes that weren’t broken and the icy gale, whistling through the ones that were, was billowing out of the dark blue curtains at the back of the platform.

Rupert was reduced to shuffling his feet, sighing and reading Taggie’s programme. His face, quite expressionless as he clocked the Marcus Black, twitched slightly when he spotted the Dame Edith Spunk.

Dame Spunk has put up a Black in more senses than one, he thought sourly. After this fiasco, there was no way the society would ever ask Marcus back. And what the hell was Venturer doing advertising in the programme. The musical society were exactly the kind of old trouts who were always complaining about sex and violence, and television going to the dogs.

The penultimate movement, allegro furioso, in which Marcus had to drag his nails up the strings inside the piano to emulate the shrieks of the Siberian gales, dispatched more musical society members into the night. Even if television was going to the dogs, it was preferable to this din, which you couldn’t even nod off to.

Crash, crash, deliberately bringing down rows of notes at a time, Marcus’s whole arm was now moving up the piano.

‘I’m bored, can we go?’ Rupert whispered to a seething Taggie.

‘Lucky things,’ he sighed enviously, as two more bids scuttled out.

Boris was in despair; soon there would be no-one left to hackle his music. Seeing his father asleep, Marcus lost his place and stopped, and too embarrassed to bow he fled to his dressing-room.

Fortunately the remaining audience, thinking he had finished and blissful it was over, clapped, cheered and stamped their feet to get Marcus and their circulation back, so he returned to take a couple of bows. Monica Baddingham, whose ringing voice was used to calling to labradors across open spaces, then shouted, ‘Bravo’ several times and announced that the composer was in the audience, so everyone clapped Boris, too.

Dreading Helen’s reproaches, Marcus was relieved to pass her on the pay telephone on his way back to his dressing-room.

With trembling hands he put his encore piece, Schumann’s Dreaming, back in his case with the other music and wondered miserably if he’d ever have the guts to play in public again.

The poor professional, however, must always smile after a concert so people may be fooled into thinking it wasn’t too bad.

His friends, crowding in accepting glasses of white, were kind because they loved him.

‘How was the piano?’ asked Flora.

‘Terrible.’

‘What was wrong with it?’

‘Too many wrong notes.’

And his friends giggled in relief that he didn’t seem too cast down.

‘You were dazzling until your bloody father arrived,’ grumbled Flora. ‘Abby’ll be livid she missed it.’

‘You were terrific,’ Tagggie hugged him. ‘We’re all dying of pride. Bianca loved it.’

‘Good boy, Marcus,’ said Bianca, as he gathered her up into his arms.

‘Hallo, darling, you were good. Sorry about the ghastly cock-ups,’ he added to Taggie.

Taggie was too loyal to say she was sorry about Rupert, who had been side-tracked, talking to Monica Baddingham, an old chum whom he hadn’t seen since she had shacked up with Dame Edith. He was amazed how good she looked, and even more so when she insisted Marcus had played very well.

‘I’ve got to whizz home and tuck Edith up with a hot toddy, but I’ll drop him a line. Have you got his address?’

‘He’s living with Helen. That’s most of the trouble. How much would he have made this evening?’

‘Oh, about a hundred pounds, plus expenses.’

And he’s been practising for this concert for months, thought Rupert darkly.

He was overwhelmed by the greyness of the whole occasion. Wandering backstage, he was enraged to find himself at the back of a queue of more old biddies, who wanted their programmes signed, particularly when one, not realizing he was no longer her MP, gave him an earful about the poor dustbin delivery in the area.

He was so fed up that he took it out on Marcus when he finally reached him.

‘At least you got round this time. Monica’sjust told me how much they paid you. I think you should consider another career, something more lucrative, like nursing.’

Marcus’s friends, on the way out, laughed in embarrassment.

‘Rupert,’ reproached Taggie, seeing the brave smile slipping on Marcus’s face. ‘He’s only joking,’ she whispered. Then, relieving Marcus of a sleeping Bianca, added defiantly, ‘Everyone else thought you were marvellous.’

As they all drifted away, Marcus could see Helen was off the telephone and steeled himself to face her bitter disappointment. To his amazement, she was very chipper.

‘I’ve just been talking to the Evening Standard, they want to run a big story tomorrow.’

Marcus had very regretfully refused to go out on the toot with the bus load from the Academy, because he’d promised to have dinner with his mother. Now she suddenly cried off.

‘Janey Lloyd-Foxe is having — er — marriage problems. I promised I’d pop in and see her, so you go out with your friends.’

But as Marcus ran outside, he saw the minibus lurching off down the middle of the High Street.

The musical society were pointedly turning off lights and locking doors. Wearily Marcus returned to his dressing-room. He ought to change, his shirt was still ringing wet. His neck was stiff, his arms and elbows were sore, his back ached as he slumped in the lone chair close to tears. Next month he would be twenty-one and going nowhere. He was roused by a knock on the door and an old man staggered in on crutches. Long white hair trailed out from under his black beret and he was wearing a black belted mac and dark glasses.

‘I am not too late?’

Oh Christ, thought Marcus.

‘Of course not.’ He leapt to his feet. ‘Would you like a chair?’

‘Please.’

‘And a glass of wine?’

‘Please.’ But when Marcus poured it, the old man put the glass shakily on a nearby table and took both Marcus’s pale, strong beautifully-shaped hands in his own which were covered in liver spots and as bent and as arthritic as oak twigs. The contrast could not have been more marked.

For a second the old man gazed at them. Then to Marcus’s horror, he dropped a kiss on each palm. Letting them drop, he took a sip of wine.

‘Those are the hands of a great pianist whom one day the world will know.’

‘Really?’ stammered Marcus. Perhaps the old poofter was harmless, after all.

‘Really. I ’ave never ’ear Appassionata play like that, so beautiful, so eentense.’