The morning was spent sifting through repertoire, struggling with a lot of swearing through a horror by a member of the Lesser Avant-Garde of Bulgaria, full of grunts and shrieks as though a tom-cat was being gang-raped by elderly badgers. They then moved on to an appalling serenade for solo triangle, cow bells and tom-toms with extended catawauls on the strings, written by someone called Roger Parker.

Viking immediately took out a final reminder from British Telecom and on the back drew a bucket, and wrote ‘crap’ on the side, then handed it down the row. Abby, of the same mind, called a halt after five minutes.

‘We’re not programming this garbage.’

‘Maestro,’ Dixie Douglas, the troublemaking First Trombone, put down page three of the Sun and raised a large red hand. ‘I would respectfully submit that this is a work of towering genius.’

The orchestra laughed.

Dixie then explained that the ‘garbage’ entitled ‘Eternal Triangle’, had been composed by ‘Sonny’ Parker, Peggy’s ghastly son, the RSO’s composer-in-residence.

It was hoped Mrs Parker would give a quarter of a million pounds towards the orchestra’s centenary celebrations next year.

‘A concert has been planned for her sixtieth birthday,’ concluded Dixie, ‘in the gre-ounds of her ’uge house.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Abby mutinously. ‘It’s still garbage.’

The orchestra exchanged delighted glances. A run-in between L’Appassionata and Nosy Parker had distinct possibilities.

Later Abby had a cup of coffee with Mark Carling who was beginning to meet her eyes and joke with her.

‘“Magnificent” is not the word you’d use about this office,’ he gazed round at the chaos.

Mark was a sweet man, who loved music with a passion and who had previously been very happy running an early music group in London.

‘Hugo says you did awfully well today,’ he told Abby. ‘It’s lovely to see the orchestra happy. They do tend to grumble a lot. But I believe they have a tough life for very little money. I try to think of that when they barge in here and behave horribly.

‘I envy you winning their confidence so quickly,’ he added wistfully. ‘When I go into the band room, they part like the Red Sea.’

‘I guess they think a lot of you.’ Abby tried to sound convincing.

‘They’d forgive me if I were able to give them rises,’ sighed Mark. ‘The malaise is general. Orchestras everywhere are finding that with audiences plummetting, reduced Arts Council and local government funding and sponsorship being harder to come by, there’s less and less money to spare.’

Abby was too wrapped up in the next week, digesting the arcane repertoire and imparting her findings to the orchestra, to notice how bad things were financially. Not only had Rodney overspent dreadfully, but the obscure music chosen by Mark to appease the Arts Council had not pulled in the crowds. Recordings, television and film work had dried up. There had been no more proms since Rodney fell asleep on the rostrum during Daphnis and Chloé and, for the first time in years, the orchestra had not been invited to take part in the next county’s prestigious Cotchester Festival.

On her second Tuesday morning Abby got an ecstatic letter from Rodney. The Swiss were going to name a train after him.

‘Just imagine the darling boy chugging through the mountains, we can all go for rides on him and gaze at the wild flowers.’

Running into the General Office in excitement to break the news, Abby found Miles Brian-Knowles tearing out his thatched hair. Herman, the kindly German guest conductor, known as ‘Vun Two Vun Two’, who had been standing in for Rodney for a month, was that evening doing the hellishly difficult Missa Solemnis.

The stage had already been extended, losing three hundred stall seats to accommodate the soloists and the Valkyrie might of the Rutminster Choir. And now Herman was sitting sobbing in Miles’s chair saying: ‘I am not a Nazi. If the orchestra won’t apologize I’m going home.’

Meanwhile, in the auditorium, the orchestra were playing silly buggers and singing: ‘He was Her-man, and he did us wrong.’

‘Herman’s paid five grand a concert to stand up and be electrifying,’ grumbled Viking to Blue. ‘He’s got no right to bore us and be incompetent.’

Hugo, who had another very difficult solo in the Missa, had retired to the leader’s room to practise in case Herman was coaxed back.

Stupid Kraut, thought Abby hubristically, hasn’t a clue how to handle musicians.

Even more dramatically, at lunch-time Mark Carling resigned. The Arts Council, after all he had done to please them, had slashed the RSO grant by 4 per cent, so now with inflation running at 3 per cent, they would be plunged into debt again. Having no money meant Mark couldn’t plan ahead and would have to scrap big productions like Fidelio scheduled for later in the year. The final straw was an enraged letter about the music put on to please the Arts Council.


Dear Sir,

If you continue to programme this drivel, I shall cancel my subscription.

Disasters come in threes. About to fly from Lucerne to take over the baton later in the week from poor harassed Herman, Rodney suffered a massive heart attack. The orchestra were shattered. Forgetting how Rodney had led them into debt and borrowed money off them, they only remembered his wonderful anecdotes about the famous, his kindnesses, rigging up a big screen so they could watch Wimbledon and the way he swept them all out to dinner when he was in funds.

‘Rodney avoided tax, but not attacks,’ said Viking, who’d gone very white. ‘He’ll be OK,’ he added to a distraught Abby.

‘I must go to him.’

‘I’ll drive you to the airport.’

‘Your car wouldn’t make the outskirts of Rutminster,’ said Hugo scornfully. ‘I’ll take her.’

‘Well, take him my St Christopher for luck,’ said Viking.

As the RSO were now facing a mega-crisis of cash and morale, an emergency board meeting was called. With Mark Carling gone, the executive directors included Miles Brian-Knowles, who acted ever-so humble at board meetings because he wanted Mark Carling’s job, and Harry Hopcraft, the financial director, who was within a year of retirement, and against any innovation particularly if it involved spending money.

Among the non-executive directors were the chairman, Lord Leatherhead, who was tone deaf but who had been fond of an aunt who played the tuba; Lady Chisleden, a stuffy old trout, whose reputation for virtue had been somewhat tarnished a few years ago, by rumours that she had been seen pleasuring Rannaldini’s ancient gardener during the famous Valhalla orgy; Peggy Parker, who referred to the orchestra as ‘we’ and who never missed a concert; various bankers, brewers and building society supremos (the three Bs which keep orchestras going), and Canon Airlie, a Handel freak, known as the unloose canon because like Mrs Parker, he was always inveighing against hooliganism.

Finally, there were two directors from the orchestra: Simon Painshaw, Principal Oboe, who was a walking Grove’s Dictionary if given the chance, and the Principal Viola, Dennis Strickland, known as ‘El Creepo’, because he was always brushing against breasts.

These directorships, which lasted two years were supposed to be chosen from the best people to fight the orchestra’s corner. But such was the distrust of management, that Simon and El Creepo had been the only people last time to put their names forward.

The boardroom itself looked across to the russet spires and roofs of Rutminster. The ruby blur on the horse-chestnuts in the park was turning buff as the green leaves pushed out of each sticky bud. The spring sunshine, however, cruelly highlighted the faded dusty brown velvet curtains with the hems coming down, the worn blue carpet, the peeling blue-and-fawn wallpaper, the Paisley design concealing the damp patches. On the walls were also an oil of Herbert Parker, who looked like Bach after a short back and sides, an aerial view of Rutminster showing the concert hall, some framed programmes from the early days, and a photograph of a drooling Peggy Parker shaking hands with the Duchess of Kent. The room however, was dominated by Rodney’s portrait over the fireplace. Ruskin Spear had brilliantly captured his Falstaffian merriment. Any moment, you expected him to wink.

Canon Airlie opened the meeting with prayers for his recovery. Miles really shut his eyes and said the loudest Amen.

Miss Priddock, who was taking the minutes, burst into tears and was comforted by a swig of brandy from one of the brewers’ miniatures. Lord Leatherhead then suggested they offer Abby Rodney’s job.

‘She’s got a high profile, she’ll pull in the sponsors and the advertisers. She’ll attract fat record contracts — we were all impressed by the way Megagram chipped in — and she’s played with many of the top conductors, so she’ll pull in the big names.’

‘She’s also a fine musician,’ chipped in Lady Chisleden. ‘I don’t want to speak ill of the ill, but Rodney hated learning new pieces. Abby will bring in a younger audience. Ours is getting a bit hoary.’

‘And the orchestra like her,’ said Harry Hopcraft, the financial director. ‘I haven’t heard such laughter coming from rehearsals since Rodney fell off the rostrum. And she’s cheap.’

Howie Denston (who’d been on the telephone before Rodney reached intensive care) had offered most reasonable terms.

‘Look how well Dame Edith has done at Cotchester,’ said Peggy Parker. ‘The English have always thrived with a woman at the helm. Think of Boudicca, Elizabeth I, Victoria-’ She waited expectantly.