Miles was the first one to speak.

‘It’s absolutely no problem at all.’

‘Can I get you a glass of water or a cup of tea before you start?’ asked Lionel.

‘Would you like five minutes to freshen up and unwind?’ said El Creepo.

There was nearly a pile-up on Rutminster High Street as word got round and musicians on their way to the Shaven Crown did a speeded-up U-turn worthy of Benny Hill. Flora proceeded to play with such insouciance and joie de vivre in every note that the board room soon filled up.

Apart from Cherub, who crawled under people’s legs and chairs and ended up to his horror, practically sitting on the Fat Controller’s knee, latecomers had to lurk in the passage.

Flora’s new coffee-coloured silk shirt fell so charmingly over her wrists as she romped through the first movement of the Walton Concerto, and her short fawn suede skirt clung so enticingly to her dancing hips that afterwards even Simon Painshaw and the Fat Controller were making thumbs-up signs to El Creepo and Miles to offer her the job.

One of the reasons George Hungerford had taken over the RSO was because he loved music. He had been dismayed to find admin was taking up 95 per cent of his time. Leaving H.P. Hall at nearly midnight yesterday he had taken his soaring in-tray home but had fallen asleep at the kitchen table over a large whisky and a forkful of roll mops, and had had to bring the in-tray back untouched this morning.

Coming out of his office, he found the passage crowded with musicians peering in through the boardroom door with the rapt attention of a pack of hounds watching Basil Brush on television.

Then he recognized his favourite piece of music, Elgar’s In the South overture. In amazement, as he stood on his toes to see into the jam-packed board room, he realized a young girl with a shiny dark red bob was playing Elgar’s transcription of the piece with a fresh and exquisite sound. Her eyes were closed in anguish, her head shaking almost in bewilderment at the dark, sad, liltingly beautiful tune pouring out of her viola.

George felt all the uncontrollable knee-jerk reactions, the sudden catch of breath, hair rising on the back of the neck, tears swamping the eyes. Hastily turning to the window, through which was wafting the sweet lemony smell of lime flowers, so no-one could see how moved he was, he was overwhelmed by the emptiness of his life since Ruth had left him. He was brought back to earth by a most unusual round of applause.

‘That was absolutely beautiful,’ said El Creepo, blowing his nose.

‘Beautiful,’ agreed Lionel, after hastily checking Hilary wasn’t within earshot. ‘What are you working on at the Academy at the moment?’

‘Mostly singing Eve. We’re doing The Creation as an end-of-term concert.’

‘D’you have to strip off?’ shouted Dixie from the back.

Flora laughed. ‘I’m allowed to keep on my fig-leaf.’

‘Going to give us a demo?’ asked Dixie.

‘That’s quite enough,’ snapped Lionel. ‘Trust you to lower the tone, Dixie.’

‘I only wanted Flora to lower her fig-leaf.’

‘I would like to ask Miss Seymour,’ Miles glared at Dixie, ‘why she wants to play in an orchestra, and the RSO in particular.’

For once Flora seemed lost for words as her eyes ran over the men staring at her, then she beamed from ear to ear.

‘I guess I’d like some fun.’

Everyone beamed back.

Much too sexy for her own or anyone else’s good, thought George.

In the end, the RSO offered Flora six months’ trial.

‘In case either of us don’t like each other,’ said El Creepo, ‘which is most unlikely.’

‘I’m afraid we can only offer you thirteen thousand a year,’ said Miles apologetically.

‘You couldn’t make it thirteen and a half?’ asked Flora. ‘I’ll probably have to pay back my grant.’ Then, shaken out of her habitual cool, added, ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am.’

So were the men in the orchestra. Even the Celtic Mafia charged round in jubilation saying, ‘She’s got the job, she’s got the job.’

Abby was jubilant, too, because she’d set the thing up.

‘I’ve organized chilled French champagne, Scotch salmon, alligator pears and fresh berries,’ she told Marcus and Flora, ‘We’ll have a picnic by the lake and then we’ll go and look at the cottage.’

In the third week in June, Abby, Marcus and Flora moved into Woodbine Cottage which lurked like the palest red fox cub, peering out of its woodland undergrowth. It was situated two hundred and fifty yards from the lake, up a rough track, which would become a running stream in wet weather. They would have difficulty getting out if it snowed, but at least they wouldn’t be gawped at by locals or tourists wandering round the lake.

The cottage itself was early nineteenth century and quite enchanting. Pale pink roses arched over the rickety front gate, pink geraniums in pots leant out of every window and a stream hurtled under the mossy flagstones that led up to the pale green front door. Clematis, white roses and honeysuckle swarmed up the soft red walls. The front garden was crowded with pinks, snapdragons and tall crimson hollyhocks. Behind the cottage a lawn bounded by ancient apple trees sloped up into soaring woods which protected the cottage from north and east winds. Beyond the front gate, red and white cows grazed in a wild flower meadow rising gently to poplars on the horizon.

‘You won’t get much sun until midday,’ the owner, a sweet widow, told them apologetically.

‘Suits us,’ said Flora, ‘we’re not early risers.’

‘You will be now you’ve joined the RSO,’ said Abby firmly.

Inside, the cottage, to Abby’s delight, had adequate plumbing, a modern kitchen with a Cotswold stone floor and a big scrubbed table. The drawing-room had a huge mirror in which she could practise conducting, and plenty of shelves for scores and books. Upstairs were two largish bedrooms looking over the meadow, a bathroom and an attic bedroom under the eaves.

Marcus was worried the place was so isolated. With every move he had to find a doctor and locate the nearest casualty department. He would have to make doubly sure that he always had spare inhalers and a pre-packed syringe to inject himself.

But the real plus was that, under a spreading chestnut tree, in the top left-hand corner of the back garden, had been built a studio. This had a shower, a 100, a fridge in which he could put his pillows to kill the dust mites, plenty of room for a bed and the Steinway on which he had just managed to keep up the payments.

‘My late husband was a sculptor, who liked to work at night,’ the sweet widow told Marcus, ‘I like to think of another artist living here.’

With a studio, Marcus could also take in private pupils without bothering the others, and retreat to avoid the dust and fluff bound to be created by Abby’s and Flora’s sloppy housework and the two black-and-white kitten brothers, Sibelius and Scriabin, which Abby had rushed off and acquired from the nearest rescue kennels the moment they moved in.

‘Two for joy, they’re just like magpies,’ said Flora in ecstasy, as the kittens with thunderous purring buried their faces in a plate of boiled chicken.

‘Can you imagine poor Schubert moving twenty-four times. I’m exhausted after a day of it,’ added Flora.

There was still masses of sorting out, but she wandered off to the kitchen returning with a bottle of Moët and three glasses. Abby raised a disapproving eyebrow. It was only three o’clock.

‘I’m not going to make a habit of it,’ said Flora airily, ‘but it is a special day.’

‘We are going to introduce a new regime,’ insisted Abby virtuously, ‘no pop music, no TV, we’ll go for long walks, read aloud and discuss music and ideas in the evening.’

‘No television, that’s a bit steep,’ cried Flora in alarm. ‘What about Men Behaving Badly, Blind Date, and Keeping Up Appearances?’

‘You’ll soon get used to it.’ Abby raised her glass. ‘To us.’

‘We better start making our own wine,’ muttered Flora. ‘Go and jump on a few elderberries, Marcus.’

‘And make our own amusements,’ said Marcus, and he and Flora sat down to bash out a four-handed version of Schubert’s Marche Militaire on the ancient upright in the drawing-room.

‘Abby’s clearly going to take rural life very seriously,’ giggled Flora. ‘She’s already bought galoshes, gloves, a rain hat and a Dryzabone for country walks.’

‘She can count me out,’ sighed Marcus, ‘I can’t do more than forty yards at the moment.’

Wandering out into the back garden, clutching a still purring Scriabin, the browning lawn scratching her bare feet like horsehair, Abby jumped as she heard the glorious horn call from Don Juan echoing through the woods. For a second she thought the others, bored of duets, had put on a record. But no-one could mistake that radiance and clarity. It was Viking practising for next week’s concert. There it was again, hardly muffled by the leaves.

The Celtic Mafia’s Bordello, rented so they could play music and hell-raise as loudly as they liked, lay on the other side of the lake. Perhaps they could start giving Woodbine Cottage dinner parties round the big kitchen table. Was Viking putting out signals playing Don Juan on her first day? Perhaps he didn’t know she had moved in. She must get some change of address cards printed, she thought with a shiver of excitement.

That night she fell asleep instantly for the first time in months, soothed by the sound of the stream under her window rushing down to join the lake.