Flora didn’t become a star overnight, because she didn’t want to. She had seen what stardom had done to her parents’ marriage. Instead she told the journalists who clamoured for a story that she preferred to build her singing career slowly and stay with her friends in the orchestra.
‘What orchestra?’ snarled Dixie brandishing the
Telegraph
Appointment page. ‘We’ll be lucky if we’re still in business at Christmas.’
The Arts Council, meanwhile, with predictable pusillanimity, had set up an independent review body to study the two orchestras. The Rutshire Butcher had not helped by giving
The Creation
a rave review, saying it showed what a lazy, lacklustre orchestra could do under a great conductor.
‘
The sooner the CCO and the RSO are closed down and merged into a Super Orchestra
,’ he had added, ‘
presided over by Rannaldini the better
.’
The review was picked up by all the nationals.
Rodney was outraged and weighed in from Lucerne in a letter to
The Times
. Independent review bodies, he wrote, consisted of a lot of old tabby cats and failed politicians guzzling digestive biscuits and exhausting entire rain forests, to produce reports that no-one read, for a sum of money that would keep both orchestras going for the next ten years. The Arts Council, he went on, ought to have their legs and hands tied together and be merged with the biggest tidal wave in history.
A fuming Miles rang Rodney and bollocked him for muddying the waters. Gilbert and Gwynneth had to be kept sweet.
‘Nothing could keep those guzzling pigs sweet except
bombe surprise
,’ replied Rodney sharply. ‘And don’t you speak to me like that, you little twerp, I’m nearly eighty and I can do exactly what I like.’
Feelings therefore ran high at the annual cricket match between the two orchestras, which this year was held at Cotchester. Everyone remembered why Rodney had employed Bill Thackery in the first place when he made an opening partnership of one hundred and fifty with Davie Buckle. The RSO were all out for two hundred and twenty-five and, justifiably certain of victory, got stuck into the beer in the tea-interval, only pausing to cross themselves as a shadow moved over a watery sun and Rannaldini’s helicopter landed on the pitch. To everyone’s horror Gwynneth and Gilbert were with him. As Gwynneth jumped down, the wind from the helicopter blades blew her natural-dyed skirt above her head to reveal hairy legs and a hugh black bush.
‘As though John Drommond had hitched a lift,’ said Viking.
Gwynneth promptly charged up to Miles and Hilary.
‘Just had luncheon in Paradise. Sir Roberto was so caring and remembered my weakness for caviar and
bombe surprise
. He picked us up in the heli, but I said he’d have to let Gilbert and I come home with you on the coach, because we want to sing madrigals.’
‘How wonderful,’ Hilary clapped her hands.
‘I sang “The Silver Swan” to Sir Roberto on the way here, he says my voice is remarkable,’ said Gwynneth complacently.
Rannaldini had had to do a lot of leg work with Gwynneth to make up for disappearing with Flora after
The Creation
, but had now completely won her over.
RSO spirits rose even higher when Hugo, very pleased with himself after a dazzling
Lark Ascending
at the proms was bowled for a duck, followed by the rest of the CCO losing eight wickets for one hundred and ten.
‘That’ll teach you to programme vegetarian crap,’ sneered Barry the Bass rubbing the ball on his long hard thigh, as Dame Edith strode in swinging her bat like Botham. Having captained Cheltenham Ladies before the war, she proceeded to play like Botham, making a hundred and twenty and breaking two Cotchester Town Hall windows.
‘Good thing those weren’t H.P. Hall windows,’ barracked the CCO from the pavilion. ‘You couldn’t afford to get them mended.’
Rannaldini who’d been pressing the flesh of local councillors then presented the cup to a puce and dripping Dame Edith, but left kissing her on both cheeks to a very uptight Lady Rannaldini.
Feelings ran so high, that after the shortest
après
-match drinks in the history of the fixture, a punch-up broke out in which Hugo’s eye was blacked and Viking lost his front tooth again, which had most of the RSO on their knees in the dusk looking for it. Miles was relieved to get Gilbert, Gwynneth and Hilary safely onto the Pond Life coach, leaving poor harassed Knickers to get the others and Viking’s tooth into Moulin Rouge before further mishap occurred. Or so he thought.
Five miles from Rutminster, as the madrigal group were soulfully carolling, suddenly Moulin Rouge overtook Pond Life, and ‘The Silver Swan’ died on Gwynneth’s lips as the entire Celtic Mafia, plus Cherub, Davie and Barry the Bass, flashed by doing a moonie.
‘What the fuck were you playing at?’ roared George, when he summoned Viking, Dixie and Barry as section and ring leaders into his office next day.
‘Giving Gwynneth a bum surprise,’ said Viking.
For a second George fought laughter, then he shouted: ‘It’s not funny, have you guys got some kind of death wish? I am trying to save this orchestra.’
‘Are you?’ snapped Viking who had not forgotten Orchestra South.
‘I bloody well am,’ snapped back George, who had just paid Mary-the-Mother-of-Justin’s telephone bill. ‘Even your pretty face isn’t enough to pull in the punters these days. An audience of twenty-eight in Stroud last week is not going to get us out of the wood.’
The one cheery note was that as a result of
The Creation
there was just enough money to go on tour. The hotels, the chartered flights, the coaches and train fares had all been paid for in advance.
Enough money had been set aside for the pianist in Rachmaninov’s
Paganini Rhapsody
, and the four soloists in Beethoven’s
Ninth Symphony
, when the soprano pulled out with shingles. Flora was consequently persuaded by Miles and Julian to take her place, which would save the orchestra a further ten thousand. The highlight of the tour, however, was still Rodney’s birthday concert. Knowing she would feel upstaged by his return, Rodney had telephoned Abby.
‘The birthday treat that would make me most happy, darling, would be our double come-back, and for you to play one of the Mozart concertos.’
To his amazement Abby had agreed. She’d have to take the plunge some time, and she couldn’t bear Flora to be the only one saving the orchestra money. She was annoyed that even when she promised to provide pianos in every city Marcus had refused to accompany her to Spain.
‘All anyone can think about around here is money,’ said Abby crossly.
But at least all the horrors of bills, repossessions, overdrafts and looming redundancy were forgotten as the tour approached.
Eighty-six musicians make up a sexually volatile mix. Tours abroad were regarded as bonking bonanzas. Davie Buckle, for example, was terrified by and totally faithful to his hefty wife Brünnhilde at home, but went berserk on tour. Players started stepping round each other, setting up liaisons weeks before. Dimitri brushed his wild hair for the first time in years in the hope of advancing beyond tea and cakes with Miss Parrott. Dirty Harry, an ancient bass player who never washed, was actually seen cleaning his teeth in the Gents. Even stingy Carmine bought a round in the pub.
Among the women, there was much highlighting of hair, bad temper over crash diets and waxing of legs. Despite Miles’s strictures that no-one might bring more than twenty kilos of luggage, everyone spent money they hadn’t got on new clothes.
It would be warm in Spain, announced Miles, shorts and a cardigan for the evening. Aware that she would be the prettiest girl on tour, Juno saw no point in buying anything but a chastity belt. She wished George were coming to protect her from lecherous Latins, but the poor darling was working too hard to get away.
Hilary had bought a copy of
Don Quixote
and several guidebooks, but felt mantillas would be cheaper when she got out there; she and Miles were looking forward to praying in several cathedrals.
On a management level, parsimony wrestled with morality. To save money, Miles wanted as many musicians to share rooms as possible, but he wanted blokes to share with blokes. Everyone refused to share with Dirty Harry or El Creepo.
There was consequently an unofficial list and an official one. Randy officially shared with Dixie, Candy with Clare. Once on tour, Candy would move in with Randy, Clare with Dixie. Everyone intended to play musical beds. Nellie had philanthropically promised herself to a different brass player each night, except for Blue and Lincoln, Viking’s Fifth Horn, a handsome willowy youth, who was in love with Little Jenny. Cherub was dying to make a pass at Noriko and had bought some black silk pyjamas which Miss Parrott had turned up for him.
The main push of the tour, however, was who was going to finally bed Abby. All interested parties had chipped in fifty pounds, the winner getting two thousand. Proof of the bonking had to be a picture of the winner and Abby in bed.
As a result Polaroid cameras sold out in Rutminster High Street. As an alternative, the event could be witnessed by telephoning Dixie who, since his success as Gwynneth in the Christmas concert, had taken to occasional cross dressing. Dixie would then barge into the room, disguised as a waitress, pretending to be delivering room service to the happy couple.
Randy had taken a book on the winner. Viking was favourite, Blue 5–1, himself 8–1 and handsome Barry the Bass 10–1, right up to Cherub 50–1, Peter Plumpton and Simon Painshaw, who were both gay, 100–1, and El Creepo, Carmine Jones and Dirty Harry 1000–1. This had all to be kept secret from the women of the orchestra, who might sneak to Abby, and particularly from Flora and Julian, who would both violently disapprove.
Most of the men would have liked to have a crack at Flora. They had originally backed off because they felt Viking had claimed
droit de seigneur
. But since
The Creation
Flora seemed to be putting out fewer signals than ever.
Flora didn’t want to go on tour one bit. She loathed the idea of leaving Trevor, whom she kept finding shuddering under the clothes in her suitcase, and although she scuttled away like an embarrassed daddy-long-legs every time George appeared in the building, she hated the thought of not seeing him for ten days either.
Blue had made no progress with Cathie Jones, but he knew she was in a bad way, because he’d seen her, grey as the fluffing willow herb, sitting down by the railway line which she always did when she was feeling suicidal. But good as his word at the gala, he had persuaded Knickers to take Cathie on tour as an extra.
At first Cathie refused because her only black dress stank under the armpits, and Carmine refused her the money for a new one. Blue got round this by buying her a crushed velvet midi from Next. He then tore out the label and persuaded a friend who worked for the Oxfam shop in Rutminster to make out a fifty-pence bill to show Carmine.
Carmine was furious, but he didn’t intend Cathie’s presence to cramp his style, he and El Creepo intended changing bedrooms several times.
Viking liked going on tour. Being blond like Juno, he was always mobbed in Latin countries. Not trusting the barbers of Seville, he had his hair cut and streaked by Giuseppe of Parker’s the week before. Dropping in at the solarium afterwards, he found the entire brass section stretched out on sun beds.
Returning in ‘disgosst’ to H.P. Hall, he was summoned to the top floor, where George, Miles, Digby, Quinton, his Third Horn, and an unhappy Julian awaited him. A very over-excited Miss Priddock was hovering in the doorway.
George then told Viking that Old Cyril must go. He was drinking far too heavily, he couldn’t centre the notes any more, and last week during Shostakovich’s
Fifth Symphony
he had fallen off the stage and carried on playing a different tune.
‘And on Saturday Cyril passed water on stage,’ said Miles with a shudder.
‘He did not,’ snapped Viking.
‘Ay saw the steam raysing,’ chipped in Miss Priddock.
Viking looked at Cyril’s scarlet dahlias on George’s desk.
‘That steam was coming out of Blue’s ears, because Abby was wearing a silver flying suit,’ he said, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle.
‘He’s got to go,’ George said gently. ‘You can’t protect him for ever.’
‘Best before the tour,’ said Miles. ‘I’ll speak to him at once.’
‘We’re leaving on Monday,’ said Viking in outrage.
‘Well, he’s certainly not up to the Fourth Horn Solo in Beethoven’s
Ninth
– it goes on for pages,’ protested Quinton.
‘It’s really too high for Fourth Horn,’ said Julian reasonably. ‘Quinton had better play it.’
‘I’ll tell Cyril,’ said Viking icily, ‘and he can go at Christmas, give him time to adjosst.’ Then, looking round at their several dubious and disapproving faces, threatened, ‘If he goes before then, I go too.’
Viking found Cyril at home, downing his second bottle of red of the day and looking at the delphinium catalogue. They had such beautiful names, Faustus, Pericles, Othello, which was dark crimson, and Cassius, a rich dark blue. He could order some Cassius, and watch them merging into the deepening blue dusk next summer, as he sat out in the garden, listening to his old records and getting through the odd bottle before tottering off to bed.