rammed by a comet.
Boris was now looking helplessly at his children, who were trying to coax down Scriabin and Sibelius.
‘Vot would you like for supper?’
‘Oh, Marcus’ll find them something,’ said Abby.
‘Marcus will not,’ said Flora, catching sight of his stricken face. ‘Marcus and I are off to see
Appassionata. THIRD MOVEMENT
THIRTY-FIVE
The first rehearsal of
‘Ay’d take a good book,’ advised Miss Parrott.
‘I’d take a library,’ said Viking, who had had his front tooth put back, but was secretly incensed that ‘Rachel’s Lament’ had been given to the cor anglais. Carmine was livid that his wife was going to play it and would be around spying on him his first week back.
Simon Painshaw and Peter Plumpton were also livid they hadn’t been given the big solo as promised. Eldred had also been promised it, but was too upset to mind. His wife hadn’t come back, and after four and a half weeks’ respite, he would have to endure Hilary’s scorn and sighs once more.
Francis the Good Loser was also fed up. He had mislaid the cup of coffee and the doughnut he’d bought at the buffet, which in fact had been nicked by the First Bassoon, known as ‘Jerry the Joker’, who was now sitting innocently at his desk.
‘Heard the latest viola joke?’ he said to Steve, the union rep, who was his Second Bassoon. ‘If you’re driving down a hill and your brakes fail, who d’you hit, a viola player or a conductor?’
‘Dunno,’ said Steve.
‘The conductor,’ said Jerry. ‘Business before pleasure.’
‘Too right,’ said Steve, as Abby marched in looking tight-lipped and embattled.
Immediately, like a great aviary, the RSO launched into a frenzy of tuning up. Determined to stand no nonsense, Abby asked the eternally good-natured Charlton Handsome to move the horns upstage.
‘Excuse me, Maestro,’ drawled Viking, ‘is that a good idea?’
‘Why not?’ said Abby irritably.
‘If we’re too far away, you won’t be able to follow us.’
Abby’s explosion was averted by the librarian running in. ‘Here are the parts for the cor anglais and the piccolo, we’ll have the rest of the woodwind parts by the break.’
‘Why bother?’ said Hilary nastily.
Shooting her a withering glance, Abby opened the score. She was relieved that Boris was still too angry with Viking to show up. She could have done with his support, but composers tended to shoot themselves at first rehearsals, because their music, sight-read, sounded so terrible.
‘Quiet please.’ Abby looked round at the orchestra, spread out like enemy snipers in the forest. Even Miss Parrott’s harp reared up like a chess-castle waiting to whizz across the board and take her.
Abby took a deep breath.
‘We are about to play the most beautiful piece of music probably of the entire twentieth century. It is a requiem written in memory of Boris’s young, incredibly talented wife, who committed suicide.’
‘Lucky Boris — what was his secret?’ sneered Carmine Jones.
Cathie Jones, who’d gone white as she digested the importance and extreme complexity of her solo, now flushed scarlet with mortification.
‘You basstard, Carmine.’ Blue was on his feet — only Cathie’s anguished, terrified glance stopped him hitting Carmine across the stage.
‘Whose incredibly talented wife committed suicide in 1991,’ repeated Abby firmly.
‘You must have identified with that,’ simpered Hilary.
‘Don’t be a bitch,’ called out Flora. ‘This is a masterpiece.’
Rank-and-file viola players were not supposed to express opinions. Flora was getting much too uppity. Hilary scowled at her.
‘Tell us about your famous mother, Flawless,’ said Dixie, putting down his tax returns.
‘Why isn’t Boris conducting this?’ grumbled Juno.
‘We used to have Schnapps-breaks every half-hour,’ said Nellie wistfully. ‘D’you remember the time he gave us miniatures of brandy before we recorded Mahler
‘I loved Boris,’ sighed Juno.
‘You’ll have to put up with me,’ snapped Abby. ‘Give us an A, Simon, let’s get started.’
After a month off, the orchestra were very rusty, fingers and lips couldn’t be trusted. Effing and blinding under their breath they began ploughing through the ‘Dies Irae’. Jerry the Joker played ‘God Save the Queen’ on his bassoon to see if Abby noticed.
‘I heard you, get out, Jerry,’ she shouted. ‘As a section leader you’re supposed to set a good example.’
‘What a frightful piece of music this is,’ sighed Dixie.
‘Cheer up,’ said Jerry, going out grinning and licking doughnut sugar off his fingers. ‘You’ll only have to play it once.’
‘We’re recording it,’ Abby, who was battling for at least four performances as well, yelled after him. ‘But not till the middle of October to give you the time to digest the complexities.’
‘And puke them all up again,’ called out Randy.
Abby tried another tack.
‘You’ve got to familiarize yourself with it to love it,’ she pleaded. ‘In 1915, when they first rehearsed Prokofiev’s
The orchestra raised their eyes to heaven and started to yawn ostentatiously.
‘That’s the trouble,’ said Carmine rudely, ‘none of us know what you do mean.’
‘Musicians don’t want to be lectured,’ said Davie Buckle, starting another game of patience on top of his drums. ‘They want to play the concert, then go out, get pissed and have a curry.’
The orchestra fell about.
It was time for Cathie to play ‘Rachel’s Lament’ for the first time, initially just as an extended echo in the ‘Lachrymosa’, then leading up to the long final solo in the ‘Libera Me’.
Surely they must realize how beautiful it is, prayed Abby. But Cathie was so nervous, so exhausted at the end of the school holidays, and so conscious of Carmine’s angry little red brake-light eyes boring into her, that she made a complete hash of it.
‘Gee, you screwed up on that one,’ said Abby in disappointment after the third botched attempt and leapt down to talk to Cathie. If she fluffed the “Lachrymosa” how the hell was she going to cope with the “Libera Me”.
‘I thought Boris was giving the big solo to Viking,’ whispered Dixie.
