Appassionata

‘Let him go and stink out Moulin Rouge,’ shouted Randy Hamilton. ‘We’ll all go and mob up Pond Life.’

So clanking bottles, carrying bags of chips and camp-followed by Clare, Candy, Nellie and Jenny and four percussion players, the Celtic Mafia changed buses.

Having had a good sleep in Elgar’s Second Symphony during which Quinton did stand in for him, Viking had woken up and was raring to go.

‘It’s my birthday, I can behave exactly as I like.’

He then remembered the birthday cake Miss Priddock had baked for him and tried to cut it on its silver cardboard disc with Blue’s penknife. As the coach moved off through the empty streets of Starhampton, however, he upended it spreading cream and chocolate butter-icing all over the floor of the bus to the noisy cheers of his supporters.

The bridge four looked on stonily, particularly when Viking bore a pretty thoroughly over-excited married piccolo player off to the back of the bus. The madrigal group decided to ignore such infantile behaviour.

Militant Moll got out her song book.

‘We better call in the pest-control officer,’ she said sourly to Hilary, who’d just given Nellie yet another lecture on being improperly dressed.

‘In the final analysis, I prefer Byrd to Gibbons,’ Ninion was telling Simon Painshaw.

‘Unfair to gibbons,’ shouted Randy, making monkey faces and scratching himself under the arms.

The Celtic Mafia corpsed again. Lionel cleared his throat.

‘Come away, come sweet love, the golden morning breaks,’ he sang to a dimpling Hilary.

‘All the earth, all the air of love and pleasure speaks,’ sang Ninion, blushing as he gazed up at Militant Moll’s granite jaw.

A rival singsong, however, was soon in full swing at the back of the bus.

‘If forty whores in purple drawers were walking down the Strand,’ bellowed Randy and Dixie. ‘Do you suppose, the walrus said, that we could raise a stand?’

Dixie had Clare on his knee. Her big bum felt nice and warm, as he stroked her slender ankles.

‘Just ignore them and keep going,’ hissed Hilary.

‘My bonny lass she smileth

When she my heart beguileth,’ sang Simon, casting nervous glances at the back of the bus.

‘Fa, la, la, la, la, la,’ screeched Hilary.

‘Bloody sight too far, la, la, la, la, la,’ sang Dixie, chucking Clare’s velvet Alice band into the passing pale green woods.

‘I doubt it, said the carpenter, but wouldn’t it be grand,’ sang Randy, pulling Candy onto his knee.

‘That’s enough,’ snapped Lionel, but to no avail.

‘And all the time, the dirty swine was coming in his hand,’ chorused the Celtic Mafia.

‘Disgusting. Do something, Lionel.’ Hilary had gone pink with rage.

Afraid to confront the Celtic Mafia head-on, slipping on chocolate butter-icing and cream, Lionel strode down the bus to lodge a complaint with Knickers who was far too busy sitting on top of the driver, urging him on like Ben Hur. If the coach reached H.P. Hall later than twelve-thirty they would be into the next day, and by union rules, the musicians would be entitled to an extra free day later in the year.

‘You’re the leader, Lionel, you sort it out,’ said Knickers firmly, then to the driver: ‘Left here, then we can short-cut to Bath.’

Nellie the Nympho had other plans. Installing herself in the right-hand seat, just behind the driver, she un- buttoned her pink cardigan, enough for Blue still immersed in Alan Clark, to rub Ibuleve into her shoulders.

‘As it fell upon a day in the Merry Month of May,’ sang the Madrigal Group with gritted-teethed desperation.

‘The love juice running down my index finger,’ hollered back Dixie.

‘The way we used to come, and how we lingered,’ sang Randy in harmony.

‘Oh, how the smell of you clings,’ joined in Viking, finally letting go of the ecstatic piccolo player.

‘These foolish things remind me of you,’ sang Randy, smiling into Candy’s eyes.

‘Rather like being an air hostess,’ giggled Cherub, as he slid down the gangway carrying paper refills of whisky to Blue and Nellie, who, by this time, had undone most of her buttons. In his rear mirror, the bus driver could see her splendid breasts wriggling as she writhed under Blue’s expert fingers. The bus was definitely slowing down.

May 1st was nearly over. Anxious to win his bet, Dixie was geeing up Viking.

‘Why don’t you ring Juno?’ He handed him Knickers’s mobile.

‘Hi, schweetheart,’ said Viking a couple of minutes later, after punching out three wrong numbers. ‘Howsh Nugent?’

‘The bitch hung up on me,’ he said furiously.

Abby, who had been coerced into attending some mayoral reception, caught up with the coaches, around eleven forty-five. She’d been thinking of ways to make Little Jenny happier and, looking into the coach, was horrified to see Viking, whisky bottle raised to his lips like a conch, coming down the gangway, well, like a Viking, and pulling a girl into his arms. Abby nearly ran into a stone wall, the girl had long brown Pre-Raphaelite curls.

Drawing level, Abby peered in. Definitely Jenny. She must be rescued at all costs. Crawling along behind the coach, ignoring Cherub and Lincoln, Viking’s Fifth Horn, who recognized her and started waving like children, Abby waited for the next pee break.

Spitting with righteous indignation, she fought her way into the bus, seized Jenny’s hand and catching her off balance, dragged her out into the balmy night, where huge moths were bombing the bus’s headlamps.

‘What d’you do that for?’ said an aggrieved Jenny, shoving her left breast inside her bra.

‘Viking’s a beast, an animal. I’m so sorry, Jenny, I should have insisted I drove you back home.’

‘I didn’t mean Viking,’ squeaked Jenny. ‘I’ve wanted to snog him ever since I joined the orchestra.’ And with that she shot back into the bus.

But by this time Jenny’s innings were over. Seeing Fat Isobel stampeding him like a rhino, Viking looked up the coach and saw Hilary.

‘Come here, crosspatch.’

As his beautiful mouth came down on hers, Hilary pretended to fight him off, but she was secretly delighted. Just wait until she told Juno.

Fat Isobel, however, was still bearing down.

‘Come on,’ said Viking, pulling Hilary down the steps to the vertical coffin-shaped lavatory, where he found Militant Moll on the way out.

‘Sweet Moll Malone,’ taunted Viking, pushing her back into the coffin, ‘come and be degraded.’

Although Moll fought him off, she was also delighted. Just wait till she told Juno. Then she discovered Viking had Hilary in tow and had locked the coffin door on all three of them. Furious banging followed.

‘Whatever did Viking do to you?’ said Lionel furiously when at last Hilary emerged with her feathers ruffled.

‘I’m not going to tell you, but he’s got to apologize. I can’t wait to ring Juno.’

Slightly too long afterwards, Militant Moll emerged looking equally ruffled.

‘I’ve been sexually harassed,’ she hissed at Ninion. ‘Why didn’t you come and rescue me?’

Hilary had just finished wising up Juno, when the coach doors opened to let her out at her cottage.

‘See you in about twenty minutes,’ she whispered to Lionel, who, for appearance’s sake, had parked his car at H. P. Hall.

Clarissa and Mary-the-Mother-of-Justin were so tired they had slept through the whole journey. Mary’s head was resting on Clarissa’s shoulder.