They were also desperately upset about Marcus, as the bulletins grew increasingly bleak. Nor were they the only ones, even those judges who’d taken bribes and frolicked in the chlorine with Rannaldini were deeply shocked that such an outstanding candidate should have dropped out.
Nor was Benny very happy as the odds shortened on Natalia.
‘I want first prize, Rannaldini.’
‘Why?’ mocked Rannaldini. ‘Are the others so bad?’
‘I only entered because Howie promised you’d see me right.’
Benny couldn’t face the humiliation of being beaten by a girl, particularly one he had failed to pull.
Woken fleetingly by the chorus singing fortissimo on a CD of Mozart’s Requiem, finding he couldn’t move and forgetting he’d been deliberately paralysed, Marcus thought he’d already arrived in hell. Standing at the foot of the bed, wafting Maestro, magnificent in white tie and tails, the Prince of Darkness in person, stood Rannaldini.
‘Of course he won’t die,’ he was reassuring a sobbing Helen, but his solicitous air was belied by the implacable hatred twisting his face.
Seeing the panic in Marcus’s eyes and the reading on the ventilator rising sharply, Sister Rose, who was for once reluctant to go off duty, hastily ushered Rannaldini from the room.
‘I know you’re worried, but it’s best if he has one visitor at a time.’
Emerging from the hospital on his way to the town hall, just when it would make a maximum impact and the morning papers, Rannaldini paused for a second.
‘Of course I am standing by my stepson,’ he announced smoothly. ‘Eef by some miracle Marcus pull through, what matter eef he is gay. So are many, many of my closest friends. I weesh I could stay longer, but I cannot let down the three young people who play their concertos at the town ‘all. Now eef you’ll excuse me.’
And as Clive and a huge black basketball player called Nathan, who’d been roped in as an extra bodyguard, held back the ravening paparazzi, Rannaldini slid into his black limo.
Meanwhile, on the steps of the town hall, Dame Hermione was giving an interview to Sky Television. ‘As a very close friend of Rupert Campbell-Black, my heart goes out to him at this difficult time.’
Like horses on the tightest bearing rein, Rannaldini drove the RSO through the packed-out evening performance. Anatole played his Brahms concerto magnificently, and was heavily tipped to take the competition from Natalia, although Carl in his plaid coat had brought warmth and almost folksy charm to the Mozart E Flat Major.
Far west on the coast of Cornwall in their little cottage under the cliffs, Flora, George and Trevor had taken blissful refuge. They had no telephone, nor television and had read no papers for days. Flora, in the nude, had just sung, ‘Where E’er You Walk’, to George, but had got no further than the second verse, because Trevor had thrown back his head and howled and George had pulled her back into bed.
Running the three of them up supper of rainbow trout, chips and Dom Perignon, Flora suddenly remembered it was the first night of the finals at Appleton, and turned on the ancient wireless to listen to Abby and her friends in the RSO. She was appalled to learn not only that Abby had been ousted but also, in the news bulletin that followed, that Marcus was sinking fast in Northladen General.
The abandoned chip pan then caught fire and might have burnt down the cottage if George, hearing Flora’s wails, hadn’t rushed in and put it out.
‘Rannaldini’s pulled off that merger,’ sobbed Flora, ‘and Marcus is dying of an asthma attack.’
‘We’ll fly oop to Appleton at once.’ George drew her into his great warm bear-hug.
‘But you wanted a rest from the orchestra. This is meant to be our honeymoon.’
‘With you, honeymoons last for ever.’
All the papers on Sunday morning ran huge stories about Marcus fighting for his life, Helen keeping an all-night vigil, Rannaldini standing by, and Rupert, Nemerovsky and Abby being untraceable. The reporter who’d caught Marcus on the steps of St Theresa’s was delighted with her scoop: CARING SUNDAY SCORPION IN MERCY DASH, said the headline.
Back in Rutminster, Cathie Jones couldn’t stop crying. Poor sweet Marcus, who’d always been prepared to accompany her, poor Blue so soon out of a job, poor Abby who’d been so kind. Carmine would probably be fired, too. Rannaldini wouldn’t tolerate such bolshiness. Cathie trembled at the thought of her husband at home all day with no-one to kick but herself.
As Christmas presents, she was planting some indoor bulbs, laying them out in neat piles on the kitchen floor. White bulbs called Carnegie to remind Julian of Carnegie Hall, pink bulbs for Abby, Blue Delft, of course, for Blue.
The damp bulb fibre squelched in her hands like chocolate cake mix, as she put it into the blue chinese bowls she had bought for fifty pence each at the local market. Tiger the cat had just strolled up to inspect these impromptu earth boxes. Any moment he’d bound through the piles of bulbs mixing up the colours.
Gathering up the Blue Delfts, she hid them beneath the damp fibre, like me burying my love for Blue, she thought despairingly.
There were always things to do in the autumn to make winter bearable. When the bulbs came up, probably not in time for Christmas, their sweet smell would be a reminder of bluebells in the summer. Blue bowls, blue bulbs, bluebells, how would she ever get through the winter without him?
Boris couldn’t sleep, desperately worried about his little friend Marcus and kept awake by the lorries still rattling down Appleton High Street. Suddenly he was roused by a terrible crash. It must be burglars trying to steal the finally completed Lear. Switching on the light, Boris found that the glass rack had fallen off the wall into the wash basin, smashing everything, including his half-full bottle of whisky and the Aramis Marcus had given him for his birthday. He couldn’t see Lear anywhere, and rushed in panic out into the passage, where he bumped into Deirdre who had also been woken by the crash.
Having located the manuscript under his pillow, Deirdre, who was wearing a red satin nightgown, invited Boris back to her room for a night-cap.
‘You know I’d never vote for a Brit,’ she told him fiercely, ‘but I’m sorry your friend Marcus can’t make it.’
For a second Marcus thought he had gone to heaven, when he briefly regained consciousness and found sweet Sister Rose smiling down at him. She’d just returned from the day-shift with a pile of CDs. If anyone could make him heterosexual…
‘Here’s something to cheer you up,’ she whispered.
The next moment Prokofiev’s introduction to Romeo and Juliet poured into the room. Seeing the tears sliding out of Marcus’s eyes into his hair, Rose realized her mistake.
‘Oh help, I’m sorry, Nemerovsky danced that at Rutminster, didn’t he?’ Turning off the CD player, she took Marcus’s hand. ‘I was in the audience. My boyfriend and I took the coach all the way down to Rutminster to watch him. He’s such a hero. I understand why you love him.’ She gave Marcus’s fingers a squeeze. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being gay, you just need to accept that there isn’t only one way to be in life.’
SIXTY-SEVEN
