Abby shot Lindy an absolutely filthy look, not lost on any of the audience, and brought down her stick.
Buoyed up by a beta-blocker and several swigs of sherry from Miss Parrott’s hip-flask, Dimitri and his four cellos brought tears to everyone’s eyes with the beautiful introduction which was followed by the thrilling crashes of the storm. Abby found it almost impossible to conduct in high heels; only the thought that she would land on El Creepo stopped her falling into the orchestra.
It was time for Catherine Jones’s cor anglais solo, and the instant she started playing, the mockery faded on people’s faces. She looked as though she was sucking some heavenly nectar out of a bent straw, as if an angel’s hand had fun over her strained, tortured face restoring its former beauty.
Even the waitresses stopped washing up glasses to listen to the langourous, hauntingly lovely tune. No wonder Carmine was jealous. Even Abby looked at peace, her hand rising and falling in slow motion like a dancer’s as she smiled down at Cathie.
Such enthusiasm was too much for Ninion. A plague on both you hussies. There was a deafening explosion. For a terrifying moment, people thought it was a bomb, then twenty thousand pounds’ worth of fireworks erupted.
Crash, crash, crash, went Roman candles, jumping jacks, Catherine wheels, spilling out red, white and blue sparks; whoosh went the rockets exploding miles into the air, lost against a fading turquoise sky including the climax which said: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO PEGGY PARKER in red, white and blue. Cathie’s solo, and Peter Plumpton’s flute variations were totally obliterated, and there were no fireworks left for Carmine’s fanfare and the rousing finale. Piggy Parker was not the only one going ballistic. Blue was on his feet.
‘I’m going to strangle that focking electrician.’
As he dived for the edge of the platform, Viking pulled him back: ‘Wait for the break and we’ll both throttle him.
‘I need you to drown Benny,’ he added as an afterthought, as a nine-foot Steinway was wheeled on to the usual grumbling from the First and Second Violins. Clare, Candy, Flora, Juno, Nellie, Noriko and Mary-the-Mother-of- Justin, who had all been taken individually aside and told that Benny was playing the concerto just for them, waited expectantly. Cherub, who was playing the famous triangle solo in the third movement, shook with excitement, his triangle swinging from its silver stand like a hangman’s noose.
Benny was definitely drunk when he came onto the platform, even the lingering sulphur of the fireworks couldn’t disguise the wine fumes. He’d hardly bothered to warm up. He just regards this as a bread-and-butter concert, thought Abby furiously.
Twiddles from the orchestra, followed by rigid-fingered banging from Benny, had the audience, who were all now fanning their sweating faces with their programmes, jumping out of their seats.
Marcus put his head in his hands; how could anyone play so insensitively and so badly? Oh God, give me a chance.
At first, Abby tried to cover up Benny’s missed entries and fluffed lines, then she realized that half the orchestra were ignoring her and following Benny. Others like Dimitri, Blue, Viking and Flora, feeling desperately sorry for Abby, were following her instead. The result was almost more contemporary than Sonny Beam and, as Benny skipped a few bars whenever things got too difficult, everyone was soon jumping around like Tom and Jerry.
‘I played the last page three times,’ muttered Viking, at the end of the first movement.
‘Library gave me the wrong concerto,’ said Blue grimly.
Ninion, by this time, had escaped across a little bridge to the opposite bank with another litre of cider and a duck caller. So the slow movement, despite Benny’s bashing, was accompanied by furious quacking as though Donald Duck had joined Tom and Jerry.
Further hassle was provided by the mosquitoes, unchecked by the darting swallows, who were now attacking players in droves, particularly the balder heads of older members of the orchestra. Finally a huge dragonfly landed like a helicopter on the baldest head, that of Dimitri.
‘Quack, quack, quee-ack,’ called Ninion plaintively from the reeds.
Any giggling by the orchestra was then obliterated by Benny crashing into the last movement, interspersed by the silver shimmer of Cherub’s triangle. Cherub looked so angelic with his blond curls, pink cheeks and his excited smile, that the audience gazed at him, which made a furious Benny bash louder than ever.
At the end Abby stormed off, catching a four-inch heel in a chair leg, and falling off the platform into George’s arms.
‘Let me go,’ she hissed, enveloped by his strength and solidarity, longing to sob her heart out on one of his wide shoulders.
‘The Press want a photograph of you and Benny,’ said George.
‘I do not share that pianist’s interpretation,’ said Abby through gritted teeth.
‘Nor do I to be honest,’ conceded George, who had vowed never to book Benny again. ‘But let’s just get through this evening.’
Fortunately the audience who’d chatted throughout hadn’t noticed a thing wrong and were now looking forward to ‘bubbly and nibbles’ in the VIP tent.
‘What is the matter with Eldred?’ asked Quinton as Abby returned and raised the horn section to their feet for a special clap.
‘Wife’s just left him,’ said Blue.
‘Is that all? Thought he must be upset he was half a tone sharp in that last solo.’
But Blue had gone leaping into the crowd like a bloodhound in search of the focking electrician.
The setting sun balancing on the horizon gilded the huge trees of the park and softened the ox-blood stone of Rutminster Towers. House martins dived in and out of the eaves feeding their young. In the VIP tent the ice had run out, all Peggy’s pals expecting ‘bubbly’ were disappointed to be fobbed off with mulled Pimm’s.
‘So looking forward to meeting Abigail,’ they all chorused.
‘Artists don’t like to break the mood in the middle of a concert,’ Mrs Parker was telling them sententiously. ‘You will all have the chance of a few words later.’
‘Hum,’ said Flora, who’d been smuggled into the tent by Viking, ‘I don’t know what sort of mood Abby’ll be in.’
‘It’s a terrible concert,’ Viking shook his head. ‘Acoustics are always dire outside unless you’re up against a brick wall.’
‘Like the management,’ said Dixie, scooping up half a dozen asparagus rolls.
‘Also like the management,’ agreed Viking. ‘The strings get totally lost.’
‘Thank God,’ said Dixie.
‘I don’t know how you lot got in here,’ said Miles beadily, ‘but if you’re going to crash parties and avail yourself of Mrs Parker’s hospitality, you can jolly well stop coffee-housing and mingle with her guests.’
‘George Hungerford is awfully good at mingling,’ observed Flora, as she watched him pressing the flesh, talking to MPs, lawyers, local businessmen, shop owners along the High Street, never stopping long, too shy or too busy to want to get caught, but making each person feel important and welcome:
‘You must come to H.P. Hall and hear the orchestra. I’ll send you a couple of tickets, we’ve got some good dos coming up in the autumn.’
‘He’s sponsor hunting,’ said Dixie.
‘Up to a point,’ said Viking. ‘He’s also bought fifty acres on Cowslip Hill and wants to build on them, my guess is he’s greasing palms.’
Flora was screwing up courage to talk to George. She and Abby had been discussing Marcus’s poverty, and his heartbreakingly slow progress, over supper last night.
‘If I push him, the management’ll resist,’ sighed Abby, ‘they’re still pissed off I smuggled you in.’
‘I’ll try and introduce him to George,’ said Flora. ‘The only problem is that Marcus is so shy and unpushy, he’ll probably bolt.’
Now Marcus had joined her and Flora could see George getting nearer. Like most of the men he’d removed his dinner-jacket showing a roll of fat over his trouser belt. His evening shirt was transparent with sweat, his square face red and shiny. Why on earth did all the women in the orchestra find him sexy? And oh God, here was Benny, black curls soaked from the shower, cream silk shirt unbuttoned to the waist.
Deciding Flora was the most seductive of all the girls he’d propositioned, Benny sidled up.
