Appassionata

‘Don’t musicians get fired for that kind of behaviour?’

‘Not Viking,’ said Miss Priddock firmly.

‘He’s got two horrendous horn solos in Oberon and Ein Heldenleben,’ said Abby. ‘I hope he’s up to it.’

‘Viking’s up to everything,’ said Miss Priddock skittishly. ‘The platform’s through that door.’

With a shiver of excitement, Abby could see the stage set up with chairs and music-stands, and hear the glorious heady din of musicians all practising different passages from the Oberon overture.

‘And here’s your dressing-room. It’s Sir Rodney’s normally, but he vacates it for guest conductors.’

On a low marble table, Abby was touched to find a huge bunch of white hyacinths and narcissi and a note from Rodney telling her not to seduce all his orchestra before he saw her tomorrow night.

The room, befitting him, had an extremely comfortable double bed, only thinly disguised as a sofa by a few embroidered cushions, a massive bath, a buckling wine rack, a store cupboard filled with large glasses, tumblers, tins of caviar, foie gras and artichoke hearts. On the walls were photographs of Gisela and Shosty outside Flasher’s Folly, of Rodney’s late wife playing in her nightie and of Rodney and the orchestra out in the park under the turning trees on the occasion of his seventy-fifth birthday. In the wardrobe, Abby found a set of his tails and breathed in a waft of English Fern.

‘Oh, I wish he were here.’

Miss Priddock’s face softened.

‘We all do. I’m afraid Lionel Fielding, our leader, is away guesting with some northern orchestra,’ she gave a more-fool-them sniff. ‘But his co-leader,’ the warmth returned to Miss Priddock’s voice, ‘a most delightful French Canadian, Hugo de Ginestre, will do everything to smooth your path.’

Hugo was very smooth, as he swept in, all fire and flourish, brandishing his bow like d’Artagnan. Like d’Artagnan, too, he had a glossy moustache, a neat beard, cavalier curls just beginning to recede from a noble forehead, and big soulful dark eyes, which kept suddenly twinkling with merriment. The Musketeer image was further accentuated by a dark brown velvet jacket and a floppy white silk shirt, tucked into black cords which were, in turn, tucked into boots.

Kissing Abby’s hand and then both her cheeks, he said how honoured the RSO were to welcome such a great musician.

Marcus, who was feeling exhausted and spare-prickish, looked at his watch.

‘I’ll take what you don’t need and check in at the Old Bell,’ he said.

‘Don’t be long, I need you — ’ suddenly Abby looked vulnerable, and Marcus’s heart leapt then fell as she added — ‘to help me if I get stuck.’

‘Courage, mon enfant,’ said Hugo, as he led her into the auditorium.

Gripping the brass rail of the rostrum to disguise her shaking hands, Abby looked down at the RSO spread out before her. Many of them were paunchy, most of them pale and drawn, after a long winter of late nights, long hours’ teaching, playing other dates to make ends meet, not seeing the sun and gazing at black dots.

A handful were brown from skiing, some of the girls were young and very pretty, the men handsome, but on the whole they needed an iron over their faces and their clothes. Their gleaming instruments — gold, silver, conker-brown, burnt-umber and black — looked in much better shape. But together, they had the power of a wolf- pack. They looked at Abby curiously but coolly, poised to co-operate or gang up.

Then Abby smiled.

‘It’s great to be here with you guys. Today we’ll concentrate on Oberon and Ein Heldenleben.’

By ill luck, Oberon would start with a solo from the First Horn, who was now dressed in black jeans and a ‘Spoilt Bastard’ T-shirt, and laughing his head off. Blushing, Abby looked up at him and nodded. Viking sat there, his horn to his mouth, but not making any sound. Abby nodded again. ‘When you’re ready, First Horn.’

‘I’m ready, Maestro.’

There was another long, agonizing pause; the orchestra grinned into their instruments.

‘I think he’s waiting for you to give him the upbeat, Maestro,’ whispered Hugo.

‘Oh shit, I never thought of that.’ Abby whipped her stick up and then down and they were on their way. She was dying of nerves. But expecting one of Rodney’s bimbos (the last one had got lost in the New World), the RSO were staggered how good she was. Thanks to Marcus she was embedded in the music, giving every important cue, detecting wrong notes from the babble of sound. Musicians detest stopping and starting, and Abby luckily also had the ability to shout out or sing instructions on the wing.

Simon Painshaw, First Oboe, had carrot-coloured dreadlocks and screwed up his thin face when he played as though he was drinking vile medicine out of a straw.

‘That was fantastic,’ Abby called to him after a particularly beautiful solo, ‘but three bars after twenty-nine, you should have played A flat.’

Blushing beetroot like an unattractive winter salad at the unaccustomed praise, Simon mumbled that his part said A.

‘Then yours is a misprint.’

The musicians looked at each other in awe.

The brass players, when they got excited, made enough din to strip the rest of the paint off the foyer. Abby managed to shut them up.

‘I gather that the RSO brass section are the wonder of the West Country,’ she beamed across at them. ‘But it would be kinda fun occasionally to hear what the rest of the orchestra can do.’

The brass section shuffled their feet sulkily but they forgave Abby when she overheated, and whipped off her dark blue jersey, mistakenly taking her white T-shirt with it, to display a pair of stunning breasts.

Hugo was also a joy, playing with panache, never taking his soulful dark eyes off her, clapping his hands to shush any chatter, pleased that Abby consulted him throughout.

And the First Horn was more than adequate. After the ridiculously delayed start, Abby nearly dropped her baton, because he played with a radiance and purity completely at variance with his distinctly louche appearance. He was also the most outrageously attractive man Abby had ever seen, lounging high up at the back of the orchestra, his French horn, like the sun in his arms, matching his streaked gold hair. His dark brown eyes seemed permanently narrowed as if he were taking aim before firing one of Cupid’s arrows. He had a pale narrow face darkened by stubble, a snub nose, and his big mocking lips somehow managed to compose themselves round the mouth piece of his instrument This was an eighteenth-century horn with a pretty painted bell made of gold leaf, beaten very thin and giving it enormous range.

He’s the ghost horn player, thought Abby in wonder.

‘You do very well,’ said Hugo, as he and Abby had a cup of tea in the conductor’s room.

‘You gave me so much help,’ said Abby, ‘and the orchestra sure take their lead from you.’

‘And I from you,’ said Hugo, who was having a little bet with himself that it would be under ten seconds.

‘There are some very interesting players,’ mused Abby.

Six seconds, thought Hugo.

‘Particularly First Oboe, and — er — First Horn. A wonderful primitive sound. Why’s he called Viking?’

‘He wore an eyepatch to his audition to hide a black eye given to him by a jealous husband,’ said Hugo, gratified to have won his bet, but disappointed that Abby had reacted like all the rest.

‘When Victor, that’s his real name, first came here,’ he went on, ‘he reminded everyone of a Viking blowing a conch in a flat-bottomed boat before nipping ashore for a spot of rape and pillage.’

‘Does he,’ Abby removed her Earl Grey tea-bag, then added super-casually, ‘have a particular partner?’

‘Well, he’s slept with most of the girls in the orchestra.’ Getting up Hugo tested Rodney’s bed. ‘He only has to say, “Hallo, sweetheart,” in that peat-soft Irish voice to some pretty new cellist. Next minute she’s horizontal in the car-park.

‘Horn players,’ Hugo rearranged the cushions up one end, ‘live on the edge. First Horn and First Oboe are the riskiest instruments to play because they’re so heard and so exposed. Viking’s the hero of the orchestra, because he stands up to visiting conductors and the management.