Dying Fall (6 page)

Luigi stopped pouring in mid-glass. ‘Time!' he yelled.

I joined the little group fumbling with change to telephone for taxis. Jools had already slipped out when I returned.

And where was George?

I left an irate message on his answering machine, of course, and retired to the bath with
Persuasion
. Half an hour of Jane Austen is an excellent way of cleansing a week of William Murdock from the system. On the other hand, I was glad I hadn't a Captain Wentworth lurking in my past. At the moment I didn't want another relationship – I'd only just got rid of the rabbit hairs from my most recent partner's house-trained angora. Kenji had got so sick of my nightly marking sessions he'd gone back to Japan to research the dietary habits of sumo wrestlers. In any case, even Anne Elliot would have regarded me as well past my sell-by date – wasn't thirty-four middle aged in those days?

When George didn't phone back, I left another message. And another.

I was sparking with anger by the time I got to the Music Centre. The bastard still hadn't called me, and trying to phone him had left me too little time to get a bus without running, and I'd celebrated the arrival of the 103 with an asthma attack. I don't get many these days, and they respond to a quick puff from a Ventolin spray, but I'd rather not have them anyway. And I blamed George for this one.

But I soon got caught up in the general buzz of anticipation. No one had bothered to tell us how to get into the choir area behind the orchestra, and the air spluttered with references to the British Empire and its spirit of exploration. Even the orchestral players weren't as insouciant as they pretended – although they'd taken their places on the platform briskly enough, they were spending more time looking round at their new home than tuning up. If Stobbard Mayou, the previous night's conductor, had inveigled a good performance, he must be worth his salt. Mayou was an American, brought in to replace the resident conductor, currently flat on his back with what the
Guardian
had described as an athletic performance of Beethoven's Seventh.

The omens were good. There was an immediate silence as Mayou strode on to the platform. Several of the string players went so far as to rattle their bows against their music stands – a sure sign of approval, which has to be earned. There was a frisson among some of the women in the choir: Mayou was a very handsome young man. Not that I was going to get a close look at this Chippendale look-alike – back-row sopranos are quite a distance from the centre of power.

But his smile sizzled even me.

Some conductors get straight into the music; others prefer a more sociable approach. It seemed Mayou might be one of these. He settled himself on a high stool on the podium. ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. And ladies and gentlemen of the choir. May I say how honoured I was to be asked to assist you while Maestro Rollinson is – what d'you call it over here? – indisposed. Yeah, well, I guess I'd call it sick. I've already met some of you – in the women's chorus – in the States, of course, when we did
The Planets
together. And of course, the orchestra and I got acquainted again last week. And yesterday.' He paused to smile at Aberlene and the other front-desk players. It must have been a good gig last night. ‘Now, to work. I believe Maestro Rollinson is unlikely to be available for the Royal Concert, and I guess we all want to make it a right royal occasion. Let's start, then.'

So far, so good. He had the entire choir ready to eat out of his hand. Aberlene was ready to start. But the perfect Music Centre acoustics let us in on a little exchange between two of the heavy brass.

‘How long does it take to get over a sodding bad back?'

‘Hope to God it's not very long.'

Aberlene's head jerked up; orchestral bad manners put her in an awkward spot.

But Mayou merely raised an ironic eyebrow and picked up his baton. I suspected, however, he might not be generous if they dropped any dominoes.

Someone had chosen
Carmina Burana
for the royal delectation. Quite what they'd make of its vulgar earthiness I didn't know; but they'd like the tunes, anyway. And here we were, about to start the opening number, ‘O Fortuna'. Lovely.

Mayou picked up his baton and raised his arms. Then he put them down again.

‘Why, if I might make so bold, do we have no principal bassoon?'

I hadn't even noticed George wasn't there. My God, where could he be?

If the orchestra had any idea, no one was letting on, any more than my students would have snitched on a colleague for playing hooky.

‘Traffic's very bad today.'

‘Nowhere to park.'

But the principal horn forgot the rules. ‘No, he's here somewhere. His bassoon case was on the bench next to mine.'

‘He'll be on the bog,' said Bass Trombone.

‘Must have bloody diarrhoea, then.'

‘Fags: he could have slipped out to buy some fags.'

Everyone knew this was a joke. If you could buy personal fire extinguishers, George would have had one. And used it.

Stobbard Mayou did not find it amusing.

He swung off the stool and stalked off the stage. He rather spoiled the effect by stopping to pick up the collection of paper tissues that had fallen from his lap.

I'd seen conductors have screaming, yelling tantrums before, but never one make a theatrical exit. Like everyone else, I suppose, I felt uneasy, embarrassed.

And I was worried about George.

‘Well,' said the woman sitting next to me, a dentist when she's not singing, called Mo. ‘How irresponsible!'

I wouldn't have put it as strongly as that.

‘Fancy missing such an important rehearsal!' she continued. ‘I hope they can fine him, or something.'

I bit my lip.

‘Mayou's so attractive, isn't he? He must have had a wonderful orthodontist.'

I nodded.

‘When you think about it,' she pursued, ‘there aren't many attractive classical musicians about.'

I considered. Apart from the thinking woman's Mick Jagger, Peter Cropper of the Lindsay Quartet, music doesn't seem to generate sexy men.

‘How about Michael Tilson Thomas?' I said at last. I ought to make some effort.

‘Yes! And he's got exactly the same smile. So warm, so friendly.'

So absent from the auditorium.

Meanwhile there was activity on the platform. After a whispered consultation with her desk partner, a wizened gnome of a man old enough to be her grandfather, Aberlene had slipped off the platform too. We all knew what she'd be trying to do – to smooth the ruffled Mayou ego. Backstage Tony Rossiter, the orchestral manager, would be tapping away at his portable phone trying to raise a substiute. You can't keep two hundred and fifty assorted musicians and singers waiting. Not to mention Stobbard Mayou.

Aberlene strode back: we could take a fifteen-minute break.

‘So where do we get coffee?' Mo demanded.

‘No idea. But you can share my flask.'

‘Thanks. But first I'd better find the ladies'.'

Perhaps some coffee would make me feel better, even if it was too strong after an hour in the flask. I sipped it, looking round. No sign of Mo. And then I too went in search of a loo.

Some of the complex still relied on scaffolding. Outsize yellow Sellotape held down cables thicker than your thumb. Orange twine secured doors. For no apparent reason, orange plastic netting enclosed areas of marble floor.

It didn't take long to discover a sin of omission in this cultural heaven: lavatories. Those set aside for the women in the orchestra might just have been sufficient. But they certainly couldn't cater for the additional forces of the choir. So, rather than queue dismally, several braver souls set off through the unknown corridors.

Despite the soundproofing and the buzz of conversation, we all heard the scream.

It felt like half a minute before anyone moved. Then everyone did.

I had not been teaching ten years for nothing: everyone miraculously gave way to what sounded like the voice of authority.

I found Mo crouching on the landing by the Grand Circle – roughly halfway up the building. She was gibbering with hysteria, pointing wildly.

‘The doors to the loo?' I prompted.

She nodded, then shook her head frantically. I approached with caution.

Mo must be the sort of person who peers round doors before going through them. It's fortunate for her she is: behind the door marked
LADIES CLOAKROOM
there was nothing but a forty-foot drop to the floor of the auditorium.

It was almost an anticlimax to have to return to our seats. But by now Aberlene would have soothed Mayou back into working order, and there was nothing anyone could do except register loud complaints. My niggling worry about George developed into a painful ache. I tried to tell myself that there was no reason for him to have gone wandering round in search of nonexistent loos. But I thought of Mo, now being taxied home at the MSO's expense, and felt sick with fear.

It was Tony Rossiter, not Mayou, who came on to the expectant stage. His smile tried to convey both distress at what had happened and confidence that all was now well.

‘I do assure you that Ms Morgan is now absolutely fine, and that on Monday I'll complain,' he was saying, ‘to the Building Inspectorate, the Health and Safety Executive and, of course, to the contractors in charge of the site. I did warn you – yes, I did specifically ask you all not to stray off limits,' he added. ‘We must all use our common sense. Please. Oh, and I've found –'

George. Please let him have found George.

‘– a bassoon player. He was heading for Manchester for a gig. He'll be here as soon as he's escaped from the road-works on the M6. Shame about the Halle.'

‘Surely he can't just do that? Just cut a contract like that? This is only a rehearsal, after all. Jools could have taken over, just for now?'

Tony hesitated. We were standing side by side in the covered piazza outside the auditorium, watching the up escalator chugging smoothly downwards. So, as it happens, was the down one.

‘Don't worry: he'll be up in Manchester in time for the concert.'

‘With no rehearsal,' I expostulated.

‘It used to be like that all the time. And Mayou's important. It was quite a coup getting him for so much of the season at such short notice. Don't want to lose him.'

Tony's coup, of course. A rising managerial star, our Tony. A far cry now from the Black Country council estate where we'd both been reared. We'd been friends on and off for thirty years, from our first weepy days at infants' school together. We'd always competed for prizes – I guess we used to score about even, but in recent years he'd far outstripped me. Sometimes I minded more than others, especially when he paraded his trappings – the cell phone, the yearly new car, the new flat, the superb holidays. Mostly when he used the sort of tone he'd used to dismiss the claims of the Halle.

‘Tony, is there any news of George?' Management Tony might even have heard bad news but suppressed it to prevent another Mayou exit.

‘You're not worried about him, are you? He's always rambling off when we go on tour. Talking to people. Phoning you. Damn it, when we were in Sheffield, we found him at the Crucible, watching the bloody snooker. He'd forgotten we'd changed the concerto and needed him.'

‘But I bet you found him clutching his bassoon case.'

‘Yes, as a matter of fact I did.' His tone was getting offhand: I was becoming an irritant to be dismissed.

‘Are you sure it was his instrument in the band room?'

‘I checked when I locked it in my office. It's still got the transit stickers from the US tour.' Decidedly cool now.

‘In that case, Tony,' I said, ‘I'm worried. Very worried.'

Aberlene joined me for the quickest of sandwich lunches at the Duke of Clarence, and then dropped me off at home. Before I took my jacket off, I had jabbed the replay pad on the answering machine. All I got was the library telling me a book had come through.

I told myself firmly that there was simply no point in sitting by the phone like the HMV dog. The weather was fine and dry, if cold, and I should go for a run. When I got back I could reward myself with another try at George's number. I took myself the long way round the Beech Lanes estate, dodging dogs and their deposits, round Queen's Park, and back up the road. I forced myself to shower and dry my hair. Then I looked at the phone. A message.

Ian Dale's voice.

I could have been sick with disappointment.

I had to listen to it twice to take it in. And it was good news, too. Aftab had been found, safe and well. Dale would tell me all about it on Monday.

That was all.

I sat on the stairs. Now what?

In practical terms there was only one answer. Safeway's. If I didn't shop now I wouldn't eat this weekend.

I was just going to bed when I remembered Aggie's plants. It wouldn't do any harm to go round closing a few curtains, switching lights on and off. Anything to deter burglars. I suppose that was what gave me the idea. First thing tomorrow I would burgle George's house.

I did it the easy way, of course. I waited till it was light, and cycled round. I knew he kept a key somewhere in his garden. He was always afraid of coming home at one in the morning only to find he'd dropped his keys in a band room somewhere in the sticks.

I tried his rockery. I must have heaved aside every single piece. I cleared out a great deal of dead convolvulus and an incipient crop of enchanter's nightshade. But I didn't find the key. And then I sensed that I was being watched.

I turned. George's neighbour, in a bathrobe so short that at any other time I should have found him amusing, was staring at me from his front doorstep. It was simplest to tell the truth. I wanted to check that George hadn't been taken ill. He hesitated, but I persisted: we'd met, hadn't we, at George's Guy Fawkes barbecue? Hadn't he been the one letting off the rockets?