At a distance, Abby had a certain splendour like the Statue of Liberty.

Mrs Parker then introduced the ‘new look’ Parker and Parker had especially created for Abigail Rosen.

‘Abigail’s coiffeure has been softly styled and highlightened by Guiseppe.’

Clap, clap, clap, clap, went the audience.

‘Maquillage,’ Mrs Parker had been practising her French, ‘by Crystelle, rubies by Precious, armpits — ’ Mrs Parker allowed herself a little joke — ‘by Braun.’

‘Hope Militant Moll’s listening,’ muttered Candy.

‘Abigail’s ge-own is designed by myself, do a twirl, Abigail, you will all notice the kick-pleat.’

Clap, clap, clap, clap.

‘This is terrible,’ groaned Viking.

‘Foxie’s going to write a new book of martyrs starting with Abby,’ said Flora.

Surreptitiously getting her puppet fox from underneath her chair, she made him wave at Abby, who continued to gaze, grimly into space, not a smile lifting her blood-red lips.

‘Those in the front rows,’ vulpine Mrs Parker leered round, ‘will notice Abigail is wearing Peggy, my new inhouse fragrance.’

‘I’m wearing Piggy,’ stage whispered Clare, reducing the entire viola section to hysterics, which were fortunately drowned by the orchestra playing, ‘Happy Birthday, Peggy.’

Mrs Parker nodded graciously.

‘Thenk you, thenk you.’ Then, turning graciously to Abby, ‘and now, Maestro, will you make music.’

THIRTY-TWO


Ninion, still brooding, propped up the bar. He had drunk a litre of cider and a large gin and tonic as a chaser. He should have been playing that solo. Then he had a brainwave. Pushing his way through the crowds he reached the electrician who was doing the fireworks.

‘It’s my birthday,’ he began pathetically. ‘My parents were so poor we could never afford fireworks at home.’

Touched by this tale, the electrician, who wanted to get drunk with his mates, accepted a tenner and handed the job over to Ninion.

The only person who looked worse than Abby was Cathie Jones. Her tired red-rimmed eyes were as worried as an Alsatian’s above a muzzle. Scurf from nerves encrusted the prematurely grey roots of her lank coppery hair. Her tights were mostly darn, her make-up thicker than Abby’s to cover the bruise on her cheek. She was so thin that the ghastly primrose dress looked like a hand-me-down from a much older sister. A cheap brooch, covering the hole she had torn this afternoon, resembled an outsize nipple.

‘What a dog,’ said Quinton Mitchell, Third Horn, in disgust. ‘No wonder Carmine’s humping Lindy Cardew.’

Blue swung round to land Quinton one, but just in time Abby raised her baton, an exercise in weightlifting as her ruby bracelet glittered in the fading sunlight.

Dimitri was just about to draw his bow across the strings, when a loud voice said; ‘If you’re into harcheology, Turkey is definitely the place, thank you very, very much.’

It was Lindy Cardew coming in late, blowing discreet kisses at Carmine.

‘That’s ’im,’ she whispered to her friend. ‘You just wait till he blows ‘is trumpet.’

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.