‘What maidens loth? What mad pursuit?… What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?’ murmured Flora, trying to tighten her strings with a trembling hand. What the hell was George doing here?

Rodney’s dressing-room was already piled high with coloured envelopes and brightly wrapped presents. The RSO had clubbed together and given him a Victorian station-master’s cap and a new midnight-blue velvet cloak with a cherry-red lining. A huge iced cake in the shape of a train carrying eighty candles would be wheeled on after the concert. A florist was busy weaving dark red roses and white jasmine in and out of the rostrum.

‘It’s unlucky to use red-and-white flowers,’ said Miss Parrott in alarm.

But her concern was drowned in a deafening cheer as Rodney shuffled on, Beatle cap over one eye, leaning heavily on George’s arm. The musicians who’d worked with him in the past were shocked how he’d aged, particularly when they saw what an effort it was for him to climb onto the rostrum and collapse into his chair.

But as they launched into ‘Happy Birthday’, specially orchestrated by Peter Plumpton, Rodney struggled up from his chair, stretched out his arms, putting his head on one side, and smiling with such sweetness and roguish delight, they were all reassured.

‘Oh my dear children — ’ wafting English Fern, he mopped his eyes with a lemon-yellow silk handkerchief — ‘you have no idea how excited I am to see you all again, and some, too, I haven’t met before: great artists.’ He beamed down at Julian and Dimitri. ‘Learning the cello myself has taught me how clever all you string players are.’ Then, glancing at the back of the First Violins, continued, ‘and you, pretty child, must be Noriko, and that lovely little redhead must be Flora.’

Aware of George watching from the stalls, Flora cringed into the violas with a weak smile.

Then, to even louder cheers, Rodney whipped out a ‘Save the RSO’ banner, waving it above his head.

‘We’ll have no more talk of mergers. I have written to my friend, John Merger — ’ the orchestra giggled in delight — ‘telling him it’s simply not on. What are they going to call this merged orchestra? The RSCCO? — stands for Royal Society for the Continued Cruelty to Orchestras — sums up that gruesome twosome, Gilbert and Gwynneth. I hope their ears are burning because I’m flying back to Rutminster to box them next week.

‘You are a symphony orchestra,’ he went on, fierce for a second, ‘and will remain so. As an encore tonight we will play the beginning of the second movement of Tchaik Five, one of the greatest symphonies ever written, with a great horn solo from a great player.’ He blew a kiss at Viking.

‘But as you all know that, and the other pieces, Romeo and Juliet and Don Quixote backwards, let’s play the Mozart. Not a day goes by,’ he added in a stage-whisper as Abby strolled in with her fiddle under her arm to a chorus of wolf-whistles, ‘that I don’t envy you having such a gorgeous popsy as musical director. Isn’t she lovely?’

‘She certainly is,’ bellowed Abby’s suitors.

As if she were shrugging off her role as conductor, Abby had abandoned her severe, often deliberately desexing gear, for a clinging orange vest and the shortest, tightest, brown suede skirt, just acquired in a Barcelona boutique. Her newly washed black gypsy curls danced loose down her shoulders. Terror and excitement simultaneously lit her glowing face: the heaven and hell of performance.

‘My dear,’ sighed Rodney, ‘what a time to bring those legs out of hiding. I’ll never concentrate. That was a wonderful century you made against the CCO last week, Bill,’ he went on, keeping up the patter, ‘tiddle, om, pom, pom. Did you know carthorse was an anagram of orchestra? Tiddle, om, pom, pom, ready darling?’

Abby nodded. Surreptitiously, mysteriously, always when a great star is playing, the hall fills up. Stage hands, doormen, cleaners with mops, admin staff were already gathering in the red velvet boxes and creeping into the stalls.

Rodney raised his baton a couple of inches and brought it down. There was an explosion of sound. Playing the lovely but comparatively undemanding horn accompaniment, Viking listened in wonder. No composer but Mozart, no musician except Abby, could express such sweetness, such caressing tenderness, such extremes of sadness and joy. He watched her breasts and golden arms quivering as her bow darted across the strings, the voluptuous swing of her suede hips, her tossing shining hair, and the rapacious absorption on her proud, hawklike face, and was filled with lust as well as admiration.

Abby was a good conductor, but her heart constantly fought her head, like a swan struggling across land to some destination. But when she played she flew, all heart, totally committed, as bewitched as the nymphs on the wall.

‘We’ll be looking for a new musical director,’ sighed Old Henry, tapping his bow against Francis’s chair-back. ‘Can’t deprive the world of a sound like that.’

As he joined in the rapturous applause, George was shocked to see how Rodney was sweating, and how much brown make-up came off on the lemon-yellow silk handkerchief when he mopped his brow. He was a ghastly colour, but outwardly full of pride and joy for his protégée.

‘I can die happy now,’ he told Abby. ‘The sorrow of that middle movement was almost unbearable. And if I hadn’t known you were the RSO, boys and girls, I could have sworn you were the Berlin Phil.’

‘It’s because you’re back, Sir Rod,’ shouted Dixie, then remembering he was trying to pull Abby, ‘and because we’ve got a great soloist.’

George stepped forward. ‘You must rest, Maestro.’

‘Think I’d better, journey took it out of me. Got a lovely chambermaid as siesta-fodder back at the hotel. Got to be as fresh as a daisy for the party later. Lots of champagne, lovely grub: I can open all my presents, and we’ll all behave as badly as possible, toodle-oo everyone.’

Waving his flag, he adjusted his Beatle cap at a more rakish angle. As he was helped down from the rostrum, the musicians surged forward to shake his hand and show how happy they were he was back.

Clutching the door leading to the stage, he patted the head of his pantomime cow, whose furry black-and-white body was slumped over the rail waiting to take part in the encore.

‘Nice to see my old girl again. Got her a Swiss bell to wear tonight. Connaissez-vous Schoenberg, Madame Vache? No, that’s French, must remember to speak Spanish. Must stop this merger, dear boy, Rannaldini’s such a shit,’ he added, clapping a hand on George’s shoulder, but using it more as a support.

Abby ran after them.

‘I love you, Rodney,’ she stammered.

‘And I you, darling.’

‘Was I really OK?’

‘Better than ever. Utterly breathtaking. Oh, there’s Charlton, how are you?’

‘Great, and great to see you, Sir Rod. Fanks for the Scotch, biggest fucking bottle I’ve ever seen.’

‘You deserve it, dear boy, after flogging all those miles.’

‘Oh, damn you,’ sighed Abby, as a departing Rodney wriggled like an old badger into the back of the waiting limo. ‘Why d’you always have to show me up by being so nice to everyone?’

She never saw him again.

In the men’s changing-room, musicians were combing hair over bald patches, running electric razors over their faces, spraying deodorant on earlier layers, cleaning teeth, fighting for the mirror to tie their ties. Those with good bodies wandered round in their underpants. Those already dressed were warming up in the passage outside the conductor’s room. Viking was playing ‘The Teddy Bears Picnic’ when George arrived, looking grim and very shaken, and dragged him into an empty-dressing room. Just as he was leaving the hotel, Rodney had died of a massive heart attack.

‘He was so excited,’ George’s voice cracked, ‘his last words were, “I moosn’t be late for my dear children.”’

The colour drained from Viking’s face; for a second he clung onto a chair, his eyes closed, fighting back the tears.

‘Oh Jesus, I don’t believe it. Thank God we saw him one last time. This is terrible.’ Then he pulled himself together. ‘Poor little Abby.’

‘I better go and tell her.’

‘I’ll tell her. You tell the orchestra.’

‘Ought we to cancel the concert?’

‘Certainly not, Rodney’s worst thing was disappointing people.’

The orchestra were devastated — most of them in tears.

Steve abandoned his noisy row with Knickers about the musicians not having had long enough between rehearsal and concert.

Abby had just emerged from the shower and was wrapped in a very inadequate olive-green towel, when Viking walked in. At first she didn’t believe him.

‘It’s just another of your obnoxious jokes.’

Then she went into such raving, screaming hysterics that Viking was very reluctantly forced to slap her face before she collapsed sobbing wildly in his arms.

‘I know how you loved him, sweetheart, I know, I know, I’ll look after you.’

Gradually he calmed her down, pouring her a large brandy from Rodney’s cupboard, then saying he hoped he wouldn’t get sacked for hitting the conductor.

‘Cut it out,’ sobbed Abby. ‘Trust you to make jokes.’

‘I loved him, too, sweetheart. What are you doing?’ he demanded as Abby reached for her new suede skirt.

‘Going to Lucerne to take care of Gisela. She’s worked for him for forty years, for chrissake.’

‘You can’t, not yet. You’ve got to go on tonight.’

‘Don’t be insane, George must cancel.’

‘Rodney would expect it.’