‘We’re all waiting, Mr Levitsky,’ she said icily.
‘Vun moment,’ Boris shot out to the call-box in the passage.
He’d fix the RSO management for dragging him away in the middle of
Lear
, and there was his old enemy Viking reading the
Racing Post
and ringing his bookmaker. Thank God he’d given ‘Rachel’s Lament’ to Cathie Jones, although she wouldn’t be needed until tomorrow.
The red light was on, shining through the mist of cigarette smoke like a setting September sun.
‘The tape’s started, Boris,’ said Serena, on the talk-back that could be heard by the whole studio. She would only use the telephone on the rostrum for private abuse.
Raising his stick, Boris noticed how many bows and instruments were trembling and smiled reassuringly.
‘You are nervous, don’t be, forget the microphones, we are making music. Eef we make few mistakes it doesn’t matter.’
‘No-one will notice anyway,’ muttered Old Henry who loathed contemporary music.
How lovely to have Boris back, after Abby’s relentless exactitude, thought the RSO fondly. Boris always kept them on their toes; they never knew what he would do next.
Unfortunately this time Boris didn’t know either. He had totally underestimated the terrifying complexities of a work that suddenly seemed to have been written long ago by someone else. The first tutti was completely haywire, followed by two bars of silence, when the orchestra didn’t come in at all, except for a great tummy-rumble from Candy who’d been too nervous to have any breakfast, and who went bright scarlet, which sent all the rank-and-file viola players into fits of giggles.
This was followed by a dreadful crunch when Boris by mistake cued the horns into head-on collision with the trombones totally drowning a flute duet.
‘I don’t know what happened then,’ said Juno in a flustered voice, ‘I looked up at Boris.’
‘That was your first mistake,’ said Peter Plumpton grimly.
Serena glared down at the black tangle of notes like a front on the weather map, and picked up the telephone.
‘Let’s start again.’
But it was no better. Boris didn’t know when to bring anyone in, seemed unaware of colour, dynamics or tempo and was constantly behind the beat.
As his gestures grew wilder and more panicky, the level metres in the control-room kept bouncing off the top, leaving nothing in reserve for any big crescendo coming up.
Without Abby to hold it together or, at least, Julian to bring in other section leaders with great nods, the piece collapsed. Useless take followed utterly useless take.
‘Despite what anyone says,’ murmured Simon Painshaw to Ninion, ‘there is a difference between intended and unintended cacophony.’
The telephone rang constantly.
‘Serena’s trying to make a date with you, Boris,’ shouted Dixie, ‘very soft beds in the Old Bell.’
Boris growled back in Russian and retreated to the Old Bell for succour. He was very drunk when he returned after the break, but because the RSO had been taught the
Requiem
painstakingly by Abby, they struggled on to the end of ‘Dies Irae’.
‘Why isn’t Abby conducting this?’ grumbled Viking. ‘At this rate, we’ll be here till Boxing Day.’
Glumly the musicians watched the recording engineer dart in and shift a microphone towards Bill Thackery for the solo with which Julian had reduced everyone to tears at the première. It had been much too difficult for Lionel, and should have completely defeated Bill Thackery. But smilingly aware of opportunity knocking, he ploughed on, sublimely unaware that he sounded as though he was chainsawing through his grandmother’s wardrobe with Granny shrieking inside. Boris, however, was too drunk to notice.
In the lunch-hour, Francis the Good Loser, who had moved up to co-leader for the day and who had the sweetest nature in the orchestra, for once lost his temper.
‘How dare that tone-deaf nerd butcher such a beautiful solo?’ he stormed to Eldred, who cautiously agreed that Bill could have done with a drop of oil.
Alas the ‘tone-deaf nerd’ overheard them, retreated to the leader’s room in high dudgeon, and had to be coaxed out by Miles and Hilary. ‘Take no notice, Bill.’
‘Don’t listen to two such disgusting slobs.’
‘They’ve upset Bill, the nicest man in the orchestra,’ said Hilary as she flounced back to her seat.
‘And the worst bloody player,’ said Randy.
Serena was going up the wall, too. She had spent the lunch-hour in despair and on her mobile. She had a hundred other projects to look after and a small daughter, whom she’d been hoping to take to
Toad of Toad Hall
on Wednesday. Serena was ambitious. Apart from the cost of paying the musicians for extra sessions, she couldn’t afford to make a lousy record. They’d be lucky if they got five minutes in the can today.
Boris, drinking brandy out of a paper cup, was now slumped on one of the sleep-inducing squashy leather sofas at the back of the control-room. Damp patches met across the back of his dark red shirt. He was Lear on the blasted heath being ‘pussy-vipped’ by the elements.
‘I think because of Rachel’s death I block out
Requiem
.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Serena crossly, ‘you haven’t bothered to learn it. Now get back and finish this session.’
Miles was shuddering with disapproval. Knickers was very, very down. It would totally knock his budget on the head if he had to call in all those extras for additional sessions. How would they ever again be able to afford exciting projects like
Fidelio
and Mahler’s
Symphony of a Thousand
to fire the public’s imagination.
Half an hour from the end of the afternoon, the RSO limped to the end of the ‘Benedictus’, and the section leaders crowded wearily into the control-room to listen to the play-back. Eldred, already suicidal at the prospect of a wifeless Christmas, was white and shaking because he hated rows. Dimitri, Simon and Peter Plumpton sat listening with heads bowed because they hated bad playing. Dixie and Carmine just hated each other. Jerry the Joker looked at Serena’s legs. Davie Buckle and Barry the Bass who had played jazz all night were asleep.
El Creepo edged along the squashy sofa, so his right-hand fingers folded round his upper arm could rub against the more exciting squashiness of Mary’s pretty right breast. A totally oblivious Mary was worrying what food shops would still be open, and if she sold her pearls would she get enough to pay the telephone bill and buy a tricycle for Justin for Christmas. Bill Thackery, radiating decency and solidarity, had quite recovered from his mini-tantrum. Blissful to be centre stage for once, he thought nothing had ever sounded more lovely than his dreadful solo.
‘Bill’s all right in the higher register where only bats can hear him,’ muttered Viking to Tommy Stainforth, Principal Percussion.
Slumped against the parquet wall, reading a rave review in
Gramophone
of his Strauss concerto, Viking looked shattered, his blond mane lank and separating. He had to drive to Bristol to play Mozart’s
Fourth Horn Concerto
that evening. Through the glass panel he could see Flora. Having boasted he would pick her off, he had been enraged to be pipped by Jack Rodway. Look at her now, flipping through Clare’s copy of
Tatler
, yacking away to Cherub, Noriko and Candy, making them all laugh, always the focus of bloody attention.
Serena was making notes at her desk.
‘I’ll buy that if you will, Boris,’ she said, more out of despair.
Boris, who was sobering up, shook his head. ‘“Benedictus” is too pretty, too charming.’
‘Could have fooled me,’ muttered Dixie.
‘Those crochets are too long,’ agreed Dimitri. ‘The melody seduce me.’
‘I screw up this tape,’ said Boris grandiosely, ‘we vill do it again, have this von on me.’
‘Well, step on it,’ said Serena. ‘We’ve got fifteen minutes to go before we’re into overtime.’
Serena was passionately relieved when George stalked in just back from Manchester. Having been briefed by Miles, he immediately asked for a score. His face grew grimmer as once again Boris and the ‘Benedictus’ drew to its utterly biteless conclusion. Not a chord or a scale was together.
‘Good thing this glass is bullet-proof,’ said Serena bleakly, ‘We should have stuck with L’Appassionata.’
‘Don’t tell her, she’ll be even more impossible.’
‘At this rate, we’ll go into a second week. If he doesn’t get his act together tomorrow, we’ll have to reschedule or pull the whole thing.’
For a second they gazed at each other; they had planned a leisurely dinner leading to other things.
George sighed. ‘I’ll take him home and force-feed him the score.’ He put a rough hand on hers, ‘There’ll be oother occasions.’
‘Not if the RSO go on playing like this. See you all tomorrow at nine forty-five,’ she called over the talk-back.
Like prisoners in the dungeons of
Fidelio
the musicians shambled out, frustrated, tired and blaming Boris.
‘Poor Boris,’ protested Noriko. ‘He is very sad to be dragged away from
King Rear
.’
‘Viking’s King Rear’, said Nellie wistfully, ‘always forcing that gorgeous ass into the tightest jeans.’
A swaying Boris was hijacked on the way out. After initial pleasantries, George asked him where he was staying.
‘Voodbine Cottage, Abby and Flora invite me.’
‘Uh-uh,’ George grabbed Boris’s arm, ‘you’re cooming home with me. You’re going to sober oop, and spend the night with the score instead of one of those two scroobers.’
Unfortunately he hadn’t seen Flora who was lurking in the shadows. She was in total despair, as she remembered the excitement with which they had all worked to finish the
Requiem
in the summer.
‘I’m not a scrubber,’ she said furiously. ‘If you hadn’t junked Abby, none of this would have happened,’ and fled into the icy night.
Having been forced to drink four Alka-Seltzers before being put straight to bed, Boris slept for nine hours. George woke him at five, giving him black coffee and four hours on the
Requiem
.
By this time Boris was ready for a huge fry-up, including fried bread spread with Oxford Marmalade.
‘Public-school habit I peek up from Flora.’
‘My cross,’ said George bleakly.
‘Is excellent girl,’ protested Boris.
‘You’ve been seduced by a not particularly pretty face,’ snapped George.
‘Is Cordelia in
Lear, “so young, my lord, and true”
. My God —’ Boris clapped his hand to his forehead in horror – ‘vere is my
Lear
manuscript, three month’s vork, I am ruined.’
‘Sit down.’ George poured Boris another cup of coffee. ‘I put it in the office safe.’
Boris slumped back in his chair.
‘You are horrible, but very good guy. You save vork of art.’
George made sure Boris arrived at the studios in good time. They were greeted by a smirking shifty-eyed Carmine. Cathie had flu, and couldn’t play ‘Rachel’s Lament’ in the ‘Libera Me’. Knickers was tearing the remains of his red hair out. Where would he find a cor anglais player in Christmas week at five minutes’ notice?
‘Cathie could have bloody rung.’
Miss Parrott leapt to Cathie’s defence.
‘That bug going round knocks you for six.’
‘So does that bugger,’ said an anguished Blue, who hadn’t slept for two nights with excitement at the prospect of seeing Cathie and who had turned up in his best blue shirt. ‘I know he’s blacked Cathie’s eye or worse. I’m going round there.’
‘Don’t,’ hissed Viking, ‘the bastard will notice you’re missing. Lindy Cardew has just returned brown as a berry from the Seychelles, courtesy no doubt of George Hungerford. On Friday she and the planning officer are off again to Gstaad. Carmine doesn’t want Cathie around cramping his style.’
Nicholas, Miles, George, Serena and Boris were in a despairing huddle around the rostrum
‘We’ll have to record the “Libera Me” at a later date,’ said Boris.
‘The only solution,’ said Flora strolling up to them, ‘is for Viking to play the solo.’
‘The hell I will,’ Viking didn’t look up from
Classical Music
, ‘Boris didn’t want me in the first place.’
‘That is untrue,’ said Boris outraged, ‘I offer it to heem once.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, bury your pride, both of you,’ said Flora. ‘You bloody well owe it to us, Boris, for wasting all our times yesterday.’
‘Ahem,’ George cleared his throat, ‘I would like to remind you,’ he told Flora tartly, ‘that until otherwise stated I am nominally in charge of this orchestra.’
‘Well, tell them not to be so pigheaded.’
‘I don’t ’ave French ’orn version,’ said Boris sullenly.
‘I do,’ said Flora, ‘I kept it in my locker. One never knows when these things might come in useless, as you’re obviously all opposed to the idea.’