‘Pretty thing,’ murmured Viking, stopping in his tracks to admire Mary’s madonna face and bending down, kissed her on the lips. For a second, Mary smiled, then opening her eyes, and realizing it wasn’t Johnno, her husband, she clouted Viking across the face. Sliding to the floor, he passed out cold.
As Randy, Dixie, Blue and Little Cherub carried Viking, like another coffin, to the door of Juno’s converted squash court, singing the ‘Death March’ from Saul, Mr Nugent started howling, and in the darkened bedroom above, the net curtains twitched furiously.
The cathedral clock tolled the half-hour.
Down below a ding-dong of a different kind was taking place. As Randy played the ‘Last Post’, waking up the entire street, and Nugent’s howls increased, a furious Juno, who’d been given a blow by blow account by Hilary, greeted Viking with a rolling pin.
Viking didn’t make it until the break the following afternoon, staggering in, looking greener than the band room, followed by an exuberant Mr Nugent.
‘Behold El Parco,’ shouted Randy.
‘There’s a special offer for rolling pins in Parker’s basement,’ yelled Dixie.
‘But all Viking’s offers are special,’ said Blue drily.
‘All right, all right.’ Wearily Viking held up a shaking hand. ‘Will anyone I’ve got to apologize to, please line up.’
‘You can start off with me,’ said an angry, north-country voice, and everyone nearly dropped their cups of tea as George Hungerford stalked in. ‘If you ever behave like that again, you’re fired.’
‘How the hell did he become a section leader?’ George asked Lord Leatherhead later.
‘Rodney thought it might make him more responsible, but I’m afraid Viking’s a lawlessness unto himself.’
TWENTY-NINE
As soon as the rehearsal was over George bore Abby off for a pep talk.
‘There’s a light bulb out there,’ he added grimly, as he frogmarched her up the aisle, ‘and this curtain was hanging off its rail the first time I came down. This is an unloved hall.’
‘It’s an unlovable hall,’ snapped Abby. ‘We need a new one or at least a couple of million to restore it, right? Not to mention the chairs that all squeak and the music-stands which clunk.’
She was still listing imperfections when they reached George’s office which had already been re-wallpapered in brushed suede in a rather startling ginger, and re-carpeted in shaggy off-white. It was also now humming with smart computers. The Stock Exchange Index on the television screen showed that George Hungerford shares were up ten pence. The news of his appointment to the RSQ couldn’t have reached the City yet, thought Abby sourly.
The three-piece suite in shabby Liberty print had gone too, replaced by squashy pale brown leather sofas and chairs. A big oak desk dominated the room and on nearby tables like doll’s houses, stood exquisitely made Perspex models of domestic properties and office blocks, which George was currently developing.
On the walls a Keith Vaughan and an Edward Burra of rugged Northern landscapes and a Lowry of a bleak school playground mingled uneasily with aerial views of buildings and a huge map of the British Isles with various property sites ringed.
George had clearly found himself a nice base in the West Country. John Drummond, washing his black fur on the window-sill as he eyed up the brushed suede as a potential scratching-board, and a green vase of Old Cyril’s lilies of the valley, beside the four telephones on the oak desk provided the only cosy note.
Having dispatched a swooning Miss Priddock to make tea and peremptorily ordering Miles’s secretary to hold all calls, George launched into a list of Abby’s imperfections.
The trumpets in the first movement of Elgar’s
Immediately Abby was on the defensive.
‘Rattle and Previn have both taken longer.’
‘I don’t bluddy care. It pushed the orchestra into overtime, I want the leader’s ass off his seat by nine-thirty. Same thing this afternoon, your little masterclass on the ‘Dance of the Seven Veils’ again pushed them into overtime.’
‘And I know whose head I’d like on a platter,’ muttered Abby, particularly when George said he wanted her to attend the receptions after every concert, so she could chat up sponsors and council members.
‘That’s your job,’ grumbled Abby. ‘My job is to improve the orchestra.’
‘Haven’t made a great success of it so far,’ said George bluntly. ‘And you won’t have an orchestra at all if we go on losing money like this.’
He then ordered her to turn up at tonight’s party.
‘You’re still a celeb, there’s no price put on the buzz folk get from meeting you. Sponsors need more than their names on the programme, they want their clients to meet the stars. And you can put on a dress. I gather you haven’t been out of trousers since you’ve been here. Your legs are probably the only hidden asset this orchestra possesses.’
Removing his spectacles, he made his eyes redder by rubbing them. He looked very tired, but Abby refused to be mollified.
‘I don’t have the time to socialize.’
‘Uh-uh,’ countered George. ‘You’re coming to this do, and you’ll chat up tonight’s sponsor, Dick Standish. He runs Standish Oil. He’s bringing another potential sponsor, Paul Nathan, CEO of Panacea Pharmaceuticals.’
‘We can’t be sponsored by drug companies. They do such horrific things to animals.’ Protectively Abby stroked John Drummond, who purred in loud agreement.
‘Don’t be fatuous,’ said George irritably. ‘There wouldn’t have been any Michelangelo without the Medicis.’
Swiftly changing the subject before she could argue, he added: ‘And you ought to know your orchestra by now. Americans are supposed to be good at names. First Flute, Second Trombone’s far too impersonal.’
Then, as Abby opened her mouth to protest, he continued, ‘It has far more effect when you’re bawling people out, if you use the correct name.’
‘Right, Godfrey,’ said Abby briskly, then as Miss Priddock came in with a tray weighed down by rainbow cake and daisy-patterned porcelain, ‘No, I haven’t time for a cup of tea, thanks, Miss Prism.’
The party was held in a blue-and-white striped tent outside the hall. The section leaders had been invited to mingle with the Great and the Good, but were far more interested in stuffing their faces with as much food and drink as fast as possible.
An eager-looking matron in chewstik-pink polyester immediately collared Davie Buckle, the timpanist. Davie’s face was as round and as blank as a satellite dish, and he wiled away long bars of rest playing patience on top of his kettle drums.
‘What d’you do?’ asked the matron skittishly.
‘I’m a basher.’ Davie grabbed two glasses of white and thrust one into her hand.
‘What’s a be-asher?’
‘I play the drums,’ said Davie, seizing a fistful of prawns in batter.
‘How exciting. I’d love to do that if I had the time. Percussion looks so easy.’
Accustomed to such inanities, Davie didn’t rise.
