Appassionata (91 page)
He was delighted to see Viking, but surprised he wouldn’t have a drink. Viking did it so kindly.
‘I’m sorry, Cyril, we all adore you, but you’re not cutting it any more. You’re the best guy I’ve ever played with, I’ll still need your advice, so stay to the end of the year, and after that you must come and see us.’
Cyril would have preferred to have gone straight away, but he needed the money.
‘What will you do?’ asked Viking
‘I expect I’ll go and live with my sister.’
After Viking had left, Cyril tore up the catalogue – he couldn’t afford delphiniums now and there wouldn’t be room for them in his sister’s window-boxes.
Mrs Rawlings who lived next door could have sworn she heard pitiful sobbing later in the evening, but Cyril was such a cheery soul, it must have been the wireless.
Viking had gone out and got absolutely plastered.
On the eve of the tour, over in the Close, a disconsolate Julian, watched Luisa pack for him. He loathed touring, he couldn’t bear being parted from his dear wife for even a night.
‘Poor old Cyril,’ he sighed, ‘I’m not sure it isn’t kinder to put musicians down than to retire them. The RSO is all the family he’s got.’
Julian looked at the ‘Save the RSO’ sticker in the window – somehow he had to save his orchestra.
Appassionata
FIFTH MOVEMENT
FIFTY-SIX
Finally on a cold grey morning at the beginning of October, the orchestra were waved off by a disconsolate troop of wives, girlfriends, a few martyred-looking husbands weighed down by baby slings, Brünnhilde Buckle towering over everyone and Marcus waving the paw of a swallowing Trevor.
But just like
Cosi Fan Tutte
, the moment the buses were out of eyeshot, everyone swapped places particularly on Moulin Rouge and out came the drink and the fags.
Cosi Fan Tutte
, the moment the buses were out of eyeshot, everyone swapped places particularly on Moulin Rouge and out came the drink and the fags.
‘I’ve got some freshly squeezed orange juice for you,’ said Hilary as she sat down beside Miles, who had just rolled up in an uncharacteristically smart off-white linen suit and an open-necked navy-blue shirt.
‘Doesn’t Miles look nice in stone?’ said Clare, as she collapsed beside Dixie.
‘Nicer still if he were turned to it.’
‘At least that colour won’t show up the scurf.’
‘
We’re all going on a workaholiday
,’ sang Flora to Viking as they sailed past Parker’s, displaying frightful autumn fashions, in burgundy, rust and snuff-brown.
We’re all going on a workaholiday
,’ sang Flora to Viking as they sailed past Parker’s, displaying frightful autumn fashions, in burgundy, rust and snuff-brown.
Out in the country, autumn was busy daubing the woods in orange and yellow. Rooks and gulls argued over newly ploughed fields. Behind veils of little cobwebs, the hedgerows blushed with berries. An ironic cheer went up as the buses approached Heathrow and were overtaken by a sleek black limo with Abby immersed in Beethoven’s
Ninth
in the back. Maestros usually travelled separately, going first class on plane and train and sometimes staying with the soloists in more expensive hotels than the orchestra, which would tax the ingenuity of Abby’s would-be seducers even further.
Ninth
in the back. Maestros usually travelled separately, going first class on plane and train and sometimes staying with the soloists in more expensive hotels than the orchestra, which would tax the ingenuity of Abby’s would-be seducers even further.
‘Our fright will last two hours,’ said Noriko consulting the schedule as they queued to check in.
Totally ignoring Miles’s twenty-kilo limit, Clare rocked up with four suitcases and three tennis rackets weighing one hundred and twenty kilos, confidently expecting brawny Dixie to hump it all around for her. Being her first tour, she hadn’t appreciated that musicians never carry anyone else’s stuff, or that Dixie would be far too busy competing with the other men to carry Abby’s six suitcases of scores (Beethoven’s
Ninth
was larger than the Chinese telephone book) and clothes for each concert, plus a second change for dinner with the ambassador later.
Ninth
was larger than the Chinese telephone book) and clothes for each concert, plus a second change for dinner with the ambassador later.
‘Did you pack your suitcase yourself?’ the check-in girl asked Randy.
‘Of course.’
‘He did not,’ said Candy indignantly.
Militant Moll went puce in the face when a customs man insisted she carried her vibrator in her hand luggage.
‘What’s wrong with Ninion?’ chorused the Celtic Mafia.
Miss Parrott scuttled through the passport check; she didn’t want Dimitri or anyone else to discover her real age.
Abby was touched when every man in the orchestra converged to lift her hand luggage into the lockers and sit next to her on the flight.
Francis bought her a copy of the
Independent
, Old Henry, some glacier mints. Randy, who was intending to spend the two thousand on a new set of golf clubs, to Clare’s irritation, upstaged everyone by buying Abby some
Amarige
body lotion in duty free, and murmuring that he hoped he might have the privilege to rub it in during the next week.
Independent
, Old Henry, some glacier mints. Randy, who was intending to spend the two thousand on a new set of golf clubs, to Clare’s irritation, upstaged everyone by buying Abby some
Amarige
body lotion in duty free, and murmuring that he hoped he might have the privilege to rub it in during the next week.
Poor Cathie Jones, always airsick, and green before take-off, was cringing at the back of the plane. Putting as much distance between her and himself as possible, Carmine shot up the front to ask Abby’s view on his solo in the trumpet fanfare in
Rachel’s Requiem
. Watching him, Blue slid in beside Cathie with a bag of barley sugars.
Rachel’s Requiem
. Watching him, Blue slid in beside Cathie with a bag of barley sugars.
‘Talk to me, and you won’t have time to throw op.’
Hilary and Juno were infuriated. Having bought
Hello!
and
Tatler
they found endless pictures of Clare and her father on 12 August.
Hello!
and
Tatler
they found endless pictures of Clare and her father on 12 August.
‘I’ve always made shooting lunches for Daddy,’ explained Clare apologetically. ‘If I’d objected he’d have shot me as well.’
‘Isn’t that Dixie peering out of the bracken?’ hissed Juno.
‘No, it’s a herd of Daddy’s Highland cattle,’ said Clare airily, in all senses of the word, because they’d taken off.
Even before the first drinks trolley started rumbling down the aisle, Miles was on his feet.
‘This is an important tour. Please remember you are an English,’ (loud boos) ‘I mean British,’ (more boos) ‘orchestra and behave like ambassadors for your country and exercise decorum on all occasions.’
Exactly on cue, Randy and Candy emerged from the lavatory, straightening their clothes and Miles’s exhortation that they must rout out hooliganism was drowned in howls and catcalls.
‘An important tour,’ ploughed on Miles.
‘Particularly as we’re going to witness the return of L’Appassionata as a soloist,’ quavered Old Henry, who wanted the two thousand for a new bow, to loud cheers all round.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ wondered Flora, as different players queued up to ask Abby if, after the concert, she’d like a personally guided tour of the lovely old city of Seville, which, after all, had been the setting for Don Giovanni’s ill-fated scrap with the Commandatore.
Meanwhile, beside Julian, Mary, eight months pregnant, was embroidering a sampler for the new baby.
‘D’you think she’s going to explode?’ whispered Cherub nervously to Noriko.
‘I have just seen a pig fly past the window,’ Viking muttered to Blue, as they waited for their luggage in Seville. ‘Carmine has just forked out a hundred pesetas for a trolley for Abby’s cases. This is going to be a fight to the death.’
The Seville sky was the palest blue, as though it had been through the washing-machine a thousand times. As they chugged past ancient tawny houses, and streets lined with glossy green trees, Viking leant out of the bus and picked an orange. It was much hotter than Rutminster. This time everyone was housed in the same hotel. Before the rehearsal, Abby had a quick swim in the hotel pool. Every man in the RSO seemed to have the same idea, showing off with high dives and flashy crawls.
Old Henry, dreaming of his new bow, dog-paddled eagerly around Abby. Carmine kept vanishing under the water, only deterred from groping her by Viking, who wouldn’t have dreamt of crinkling his hair by swimming before a concert, but who prowled round the edge of the pool keeping an eye on his quarry.
At six o’clock there was a panic instead of a rehearsal, because the cherry-red RSO van hadn’t arrived with the instruments and all the music. The real heroes of the tour, Charlton Handsome and his humpers and roadies, had been driving from Rutminster since Saturday morning. They had been held up at the border, where Customs, assuming they were a rock band, upended the entire van for drugs.
As the van finally drew up outside the Seville concert hall, frenzied musicians fell on it, terrified their precious instruments might have gone astray. Charlton was rolling the big bass drum down the ramp, when he was pushed aside by Dimitri, frantic to find his Guarnieri, vowing they’d never be parted again.
‘Just fuck off, Knickers,’ Charlton was now saying to an hysterical Nicholas, ‘or I’ll drive the ‘ole lot into the river.
‘Fanks, love,’ he added to Flora, who’d brought out a six-pack of iced beer.
‘I will not have drinking during working hours,’ spluttered Miles, rolling up in a dinner-jacket.
‘I’ll ’ave you remember, Mister Brian-Knowles,’ snapped back Charlton, ‘that while you was shacked up all cosy last night wiv Lady ‘Ilary, me and the boys,’ he pointed to an ice pick and shovel attached to the inside of the lorry, ‘was digging our way outa the Pyrenees.’
Miles went purple, particularly when Flora burst out laughing.
‘What’s in that box?’ she asked, as Charlton relieved her of another can of beer.
‘Viola players – you get more in if you slice them thinly.’
The concert was a massive success. John Lill, the soloist, played the Rachmaninov so beautifully he had the very formal, straight-backed audience yelling their dark sleek heads off.
Abby was nervous how they’d react to
Rachel’s Requiem
, but they listened enraptured, and when Viking launched into ‘Rachel’s Lament’, they all started to clap as though he were Pavarotti singing ‘Nessun Dorma’, so Viking played it again, and the applause at the end went on for ten minutes.
Rachel’s Requiem
, but they listened enraptured, and when Viking launched into ‘Rachel’s Lament’, they all started to clap as though he were Pavarotti singing ‘Nessun Dorma’, so Viking played it again, and the applause at the end went on for ten minutes.
As the roadies loaded up again for the drive to Granada, Charlton told Julian he’d heard that ‘triffic tune’ twice on the bar radio during the concert. Francis the Good Loser, climbing up a lamp-post in the main square to get a better reception on the World Service, nearly got arrested later in the evening.
‘Listen,’ he thrust out his radio.
‘Ah, “Rachel’s Lament”, very good tune,’ chorused the ring of policemen, giving him a round of applause when he played it on his fiddle.
As Abby came into the hotel around one o’clock after an official dinner with John Lill and the Mayor of Seville, the foyer was suddenly full of male musicians. Jerry and Quinton both wanted words about their solos in Beethoven’s
Ninth
, and individually wondered if they could run through them in Abby’s suite.
Ninth
, and individually wondered if they could run through them in Abby’s suite.
‘No, you fucking can’t,’ Viking was at Abby’s elbow, waving her key. ‘You pinched that solo from Cyril, Quinton, you bloody sort it out.’
‘What about a drink?’ he murmured to Abby, two minutes later as he opened her door.
Abby havered, then said wistfully, ‘I ought to get an early night, and I’ve gotta practise the Mozart – it’s more difficult than I figured, I’m terrified of letting Rodney down.’
Or yourself, thought Viking.
He wasn’t going to push it. Instead he gave her the orange he’d picked from the bus, and made her promise to have dinner with him later in the week.
On tours, as on away fixtures, the orchestra tended to split into two groups. Pond Life was epitomized by Peter Plumpton, Simon, Hilary, Militant Moll (and a reluctant Ninion), along with others who were either desperately broke or tight with money. This group, because breakfast was the only meal provided, came down, stuffed themselves, then loaded rolls, cheese, ham, yoghurt, apples, even cartons of decanted prunes into carrier bags, and lived off that for the rest of the day. This meant they could go home with enough totted-up lunch and dinner allowance to pay the gas bill or buy a microwave. They never went out boozing.
In utter contrast, Moulin Rouge led by the Celtic Mafia were hell bent on whooping it up.
‘If you make breakfast,’ as Dixie was fond of saying, ‘you’re not regarded as one of the lads.’
It would be hard to decide which group disapproved more strongly of the other. With the making of Abby on the agenda, however, the two groups became blurred with Ninion realizing he could buy an inferno of microwaves with the two thousand, and Francis appreciating he’d be able to pay for a hip operation for his wife, instead of waiting a year for one on the NHS. Peter Plumpton had already earmarked a button-backed sofa in an antique shop in Eldercombe.
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