Appassionata

ten.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he smiled unrepentantly at Abby. ‘I was having a helicopter lesson and I couldn’t find anywhere to park. Hi, sweetheart.’ He paused on the way to kiss the Steel Elf.

Incensed because the French horns start the Fifth Symphony, Abby proceeded to dock half an hour off Viking’s pay, which triggered off the orchestra. She had vowed to be accommodating today and as a joke had even circulated a photostat of a dictionary definition of the word, pianissimo, to all the brass section to stop them drowning everyone else. But they had merely made paper darts and thrown them back at her.

Lionel the leader, who should have supported Abby, made no attempt to hush the chat that rose like a fountain whenever there was a pause. Now he asked if he might have a word. Abby jumped down from the rostrum, acutely conscious of her scruffy appearance and dirty hair beside Lionel’s coiffeured glamour. Even his breath smelt of peppermint, as he said: ‘Look, we’ve recorded this symphony with Rodney and Ambrose. If you want to get through it, just sit on top of the orchestra and coast.’

‘And leave you in charge, no, thank you,’ snapped Abby.

Lionel and Hilary exchanged told-you-so shrugs.

Two minutes later Abby called a halt.

‘Excuse me, flutes, you were dragging a little.’

‘You amaze me,’ Juno lowered her long blond eyelashes, ‘we were only following you.’

Ignoring the jibe, Abby tried to inspire them by telling them of Sibelius’s emotions when he wrote the symphony, but they all started yawning.

‘As you know the last movement ends with the six huge hammer blows of the God Thor,’ persisted Abby.

‘My back’s thore after all those semi-quavers,’ said a voice from the back of the violas.

‘Cut out the programme notes and get on with it,’ shouted Randy.

Dixie got out a porn mag.

Abby’s messianic streak emerged five minutes later when the horns launched into a glorious swinging tune.

‘This is a great euphoric affirmation of hope,’ she said earnestly, ‘which Sibelius wrote after he discovered that he wasn’t dying of cancer, after all, so I want you horns to play as though the sun was bursting through dark clouds and…’

Viking let her run on for a minute, before looking up.

‘You mean you want it louder,’ he drawled.

The orchestra cracked up.

‘No, I do not,’ screamed Abby. ‘I want you to play with more passion, and build up to a splendid sforzando.’

‘It says fortissimo in my score.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, let’s get on.’

Nellie Nicholson, the orchestra nymphomaniac, was a third desk cellist whose cello was nicknamed ‘Lucky’ by the male musicians. Five minutes later she came in loudly in one of the long pauses between the final hammer blows.

‘Sorry, sorry, Abby,’ she called out apologetically. ‘A fly landed on my score and I played it by mistake.’

Again the orchestra cracked up.

Abby totally lost her cool.

‘What in hell’s the matter with you guys?’

‘You are,’ piped up a voice from the back of the violas.

Abby couldn’t detect the offender who was hidden by Fat Isobel, who was even larger than Fat Rosie. Fat Isobel had a big jaw, and always looked as though she’d cleaned the grill pan with her hair. Despite this, on last year’s tour of the Oman, lots of Arabs had seriously tried to buy Isobel. Leaping down, barging between the second violins and violas, somehow circumnavigating Fat Isobel, Abby found Clare, the orchestra Sloane, and Candy, her best friend, from Australia, both ravishing blondes, playing battleships and discussing their sex life.

‘You will not hide behind Isobel,’ stormed Abby.

As she yanked their music-stand into view, the viola part of Sibelius’s Fifth fluttered to the floor.

‘Excuse me, Maestro,’ Steve Smithson, the RSO’s union rep, was beside her in a trice, breathing fire. ‘It’s Mr Charlton and the stage hands’ job to move the music-stands. If you observe Rule 223,’ he brandished the book under her nose.

For a second he and Abby glared at each other. Behind him Abby could see Nicholas, the orchestra manager, bald head bobbing like a buoy at sea, as he hopped from one foot to another in the wings, terrified at the prospect of a walk-out before the concert.

Wearily, Abby climbed back onto the rostrum.

‘Let’s play the last page again, and no-one is to come in between hammer blows.’

‘With respect, Maestro,’ said Lionel silkily, ‘it’s half-past eleven,’ and was nearly knocked sideways by junior members of the various sections and a barking Mr Nugent racing out to be first in the tea queue.

Abby slumped in the conductor’s room, burning face in her hands. Having had no time to put on a deodorant, she could smell last night’s sweat, now sour with fear. Dipping a towel in cold water, she rubbed it under her armpits, then groaned as she glanced in the mirror, the rust jersey was far too hot and clashed with her hectic red cheeks, her hair rose like Strewel Peter. She knew the orchestra were trying to goad her into resigning. She mustn’t be beaten.

Outside she could hear the cuckoo. Beyond the park, over the palest green rolling fields of barley, she could see the Blackmere Woods and knew what she must do. Splashing her face with cold water, she picked up her stick with resolve.

The second half went better. The horns and trumpets were swinging joyfully like monkeys in the jungle through the glorious heroic tune. The bows of the string players were a blur, they were going so fast.

But, as Abby paused to improve the ensemble playing of the Second Violins, little Claude ‘Cherub’ Wilson put up his hand.

Cherub, Second Percussion, had blond curls and blue eyes and hardly looked old enough to be playing in a primary-school band.

All the orchestra adored him. Miss Priddock baked him cakes. Even the Celtic Mafia allowed him to travel in their car to concerts to act as Court Jester. He was now sitting in the percussion seat behind Viking.

‘Scuse me, Miss Rosen.’

‘Yes Cherub,’ Abby’s face softened.

‘You know that bit in the first movement?’

Abby picked up the score and patiently started to leaf back through the pages.

‘Which bit, Cherub?’

‘The bit when the horns come in an’ the trumpets an’ the strings.’

‘There are a lot of bits like that.’

Cherub leant forward, consulting Viking’s score.

‘I found it a minute ago, it goes, la, la, la, la, la, la, la,’ he sung in a shrill falsetto, ‘or maybe it’s la, la, la, la, la, la.’

The orchestra were clutching their sides.

‘Don’t laugh at Cherub,’ snapped Abby. ‘I know that bit,’ she flipped more pages. ‘Here it is. But you’re not even playing,’ she cried in outrage, then realizing she’d been hoodwinked, ‘in fact there’s no percussion in this symphony.’

‘I know,’ Cherub beamed at her. ‘But it’s a nice bit, isn’t it? We do like nice bits you know; can you play it again?’

‘No, we flaming can’t,’ Abby contemplated hurling her score at him, but she couldn’t throw that far.

Quivering with rage, she clutched the brass rail, counting to ten, deciding to give them one more chance.

‘During the break,’ she leafed forward to the last movement, ‘I looked out at the Blackmere Woods, and realized how all the different greens contribute to the beauty of the spring, merging together like a great