Jilly Cooper - Appassionata

Marcus cringed behind the upright piano.

But Peggy was prepared to let bygones be byge-owns, and presented Marcus with a large Christmas hamper.

‘You’ve done my Sonny proud, we look forward to receiving you at Rutminster Towers.’

Cherub also received a smaller hamper for being wounded in action, and the brass section were each given a bottle of champagne for pulling the chain so meaningfully.

Gilbert and Gwynneth were also in raptures. They had never seen a Rutminster audience enjoy themselves so much. At last music was being brought to the people. They made a point of seeking Marcus out and commending his sensitive playing.

‘We’re staying in the Close with Canon Airlie,’ whispered Gwynneth, ‘please drop in for carols and wassail later.’

‘You’re terribly kind,’ Marcus ducked to avoid a flying earring.

‘We’re going to hear a good deal more of Black,’ said Gilbert as he drifted out.

That boy’s done well, thought George, he made a diabolical piece of music sound almost good.

‘Could I have a word?’ he asked Marcus.

Ravel had once confessed sadly that Boléro was his only masterpiece and it contained no music. But after Sonny’s self-indulgent, mindless, ear-murdering junk, Boléro sounded glorious. Tommy Stainforth, Principal Percussion, joined later by Cherub, his nose bleed staining his white shirt like a boy soldier in battle, kept up the relentless hypnotic beat on their silver snare-drums, while sections and soloists took it in turns to snake languorously in and out of the one disturbingly beautiful tune.

‘The viola player’s problem in Boléro is keeping awake,’ Candy had warned Flora.

But instead, as the entire string section put down their bows and plucked their instruments like flamenco guitars, the sound made Flora burst with pride. She suddenly felt part of the great heartbeat of the orchestra as the music slowly swelled to a stupendous climax with the last clashing discord from the brass.

‘That’s definitely coitus non-interruptus,’ shouted Clare over the delirious torrent of applause. ‘I wish sex was as good as that.’

It will be with Viking, thought Flora, but when she glanced round, the First Horn’s chair was empty.

Faint with disappointment, suddenly exhausted, Flora could hardly lift her bow during the carols; and, as the last notes of ‘Adeste Fideles’ died away and the audience, now in party mood, called for encore, Viking was still missing.

‘Buggered off on some date,’ sighed Candy.

Meanwhile, outside the conductor’s room, Miles was having a row with Abby, Julian and a large black-and-white pantomime cow.

‘We rehearsed “The Shepherd’s Farewell” as an encore,’ Miles was saying angrily.

‘The audience expect Rodney’s cow,’ said Abby firmly. ‘She’s a Christmas fixture.’

The cow nodded in agreement and rubbed its furry head against Abby’s arm.

‘You can’t lower the tone,’ ordered Miles, ‘not with the Arts Council present.’

‘Bugger the Arts Council,’ said the back of the cow, doing a high kick. The front of the cow let out a high-pitched giggle, leaving no doubt as to its identity.

‘Shut up,’ hissed Miles glancing round in terror. ‘Gilbert and Gwynneth were backstage earlier. If you don’t play “The Shepherd’s Farewell”, Abby, heads will roll.’

The shouts of encore and the stamp of feet were growing in volume.

‘Come on, you guys,’ said Abby defiantly, waltzing off towards the stage.

‘Miserable old bugger,’ said the back legs, as the cow lumbered after her.

‘I’ll have you know, I’m still here,’ said Miles furiously.

Such screams of joy greeted the arrival of the cow on stage, that it was a few minutes before Abby could make herself heard.

‘Sir Rodney is really disappointed not to be here to wish you all a merry Christmas — ’ the audience gave a great cheer — ‘but he’s a lot better, right? And he hopes to be back on the rostrum some time next year.’

‘Bravo,’ shouted everyone.

‘Meanwhile, he’s sent you a very special soloist.’

The cow did a soft-shoe shuffle to more deafening cheers.

‘Good evening, Mrs Cow,’ continued Abby, ‘are you going to play us a tune?’

Slowly the cow nodded, batting her long black eyelashes.

‘What about some Mozart or perhaps some Beethoven?’

The cow shook her head.

‘Or some Schoenberg.’

For a second the front of the cow deliberated, wondering whether to drop the back legs in it, then slowly she shook her head again.

‘I know,’ said Abby over the howls of laughter, ‘can you play us some Tchaikovsky?’

The cow nodded frantically, and next moment the back half launched into the beautiful French horn solo from the second movement of the Fifth Symphony leaving absolutely no doubt as to his identity either, and the audience went beserk.

But when Flora finally escaped from the platform, she couldn’t find Viking anywhere. Aching all over but most of all in her heart, she trailed off to congratulate Marcus.

She found him in a daze; the last well-wisher had only just left.

‘The good news is,’ he told her, ‘that George Hungerford has decided to junk Benny and book me for Rachmaninov’s Third Piano Concerto at the end of February.’

As Flora whooped and hugged him, an inner voice chided her that both Abby and Marcus were getting on with their careers and she was getting nowhere, not even to first base with Viking. Bitterly ashamed of being mean spirited, she was doing a war dance round Marcus, when he continued: ‘And the bad news is that Sonny is a serious bum-bandit and wants me to have dinner with him.’

‘Omigod, you’ll never cope with Peggy as a mother-in-law. Let’s rush off and have an Indian,’ said Flora.

Viking had obviously been playing games, she thought despairingly.

Flora’s fears were confirmed as she and Marcus ran towards the car-park, and rounding a corner, stumbled on Viking and Serena Westwood in a huddle.

Seeing Flora, Mr Nugent bounded forward joyfully. Viking had his back to her, but, catching sight of her red hair reflected in the window, he reached behind him and grabbed her hand.

‘Serena, you haven’t met Flora, she’s a dote.’

‘A dote?’ Serena looked puzzled and not very pleased.

Sliding his arm round Flora’s shoulders, Viking drew her against his long hard body. His hair was still wet from the shower — he had shaved off this morning’s stubble.

‘A little dote,’ he added caressingly. ‘Dotey’s the adjective, it’s an Irish word,’ he curled a warm palm round Flora’s neck, ‘means that everyone dotes on her.’

‘How nice for Flora,’ said Serena crisply. She’d heard differently from others. ‘Hallo, Marcus,’ she added with considerably more warmth. ‘You played beautifully.’

‘And Hatchet Hungerford’s just booked him to do Rach Three in Feb,’ beamed Flora. It was incredible that Viking’s hand on her neck could cure all her aches and tiredness in a second. ‘So we must celebrate.’

‘We certainly mosst, that’s tremendous,’ Viking clapped Marcus on the shoulder. Then, turning to Serena, added, ‘Have a good Christmas, darling, let me know what you decide.’

As he led Flora and Marcus towards the car-park, he explained.

‘The playback of the Requiem was so dire, Serena and George have decided to reschedule it with L’Appassionata conducting.’

‘Abby’ll be knocked out,’ said Marcus in delight.

‘And with Julian back as leader so he can play the big violin solo.’

‘Bill Thackery will shoot himself,’ said Flora.

‘Save everyone else doing the job.’

Outside, six inches of snow had blanketed everything: cars, houses, railings, lamp-posts, each blade of grass. To this, a heavy hoar frost had added a diamanté sparkle, so the great horse-chestnuts in the park seemed like glittering white clouds beneath a clear starry sky. Cyril’s bird-table had become a wedding-cake awaiting decoration and across the town, the cathedral gleamed like a vast lurking iceberg.

Nugent went beserk, tunnelling his snapping snout through the snow, leaping in ecstasy, emerging with a white-powdered wig on his furry black head. Having sent him hurtling across the park after a snowball, Viking scooped up more snow, hardened it into another ball and closed Flora’s hands round it.