‘Nor does the silly bugger realize that the trumpet’s been transposed into the wrong key by the copyist for the last three rehearsals,’ said Viking scornfully.

‘He’s been too busy jogging so he can rush up onto the platform in time to catch the applause,’ said Blue, shaking water out of his tuning slide.

Sonny had also been active organizing a claque of comely youths from the soft-furnishing department to provide a standing ovation.

‘Now, really clap your hands, boys, shout, “Bravo” and stamp your feet.’

Sonny’s favourite, however, was rumoured to be a plump young man with soft brown curls in all the right places, who was going to dress in lederhosen and provide the yodelling tonight.

At ten o’clock, by which time the temperature had soared into the nineties, the orchestra were released, many of them to sunbathe so they would look good in their summer uniform of white dinner-jackets, or for women, dresses in a single colour, whose skirts must fall at least nine inches below the knee.

As Rutshire was playing Yorkshire on the cricket ground next to the cathedral, Old Henry and Old Cyril found a couple of deckchairs. As he opened a can of beer, Old Cyril thanked God for the millionth time that Viking and Blue had carried him through his audition.

Having spent the morning on the telephone shouting at his builder who had omitted to put a staircase in a new office block: ‘Now, that’s one I really can’t lie about, George,’ George Hungerford had also hoped to slope off to the cricket ground to cheer on his home county.

Coming out of his office, however, he had found Eldred, the First Clarinet, in tears. They were so badly in debt that his wife had left him.

‘You better tell me about it,’ sighed George, going back into his office.

Carmine Jones’s face grew even redder as he pleasured Lindy Cardew, wife of Rutminster’s planning officer, on her peach nylon sheets.

‘I’ll get you back into the choir, Lindy, if it kills me.’

Poor Catherine Jones had no time to practise her cor anglais, she had been far too busy washing and ironing Carmine’s dress-shirt and getting suspicious-looking grass stains out of his white tuxedo, and sobbing over the primrose-yellow taffeta dress with huge puffed sleeves which had been fashionable the year the Princess of Wales had married Prince Charles, the same year she had married Carmine. Apart from a black polyester shift to wear to winter concerts, she had not had a new dress since then.

Tonight’s outfit had to be one colour. Cutting the orange fire bird made of sequins from the yellow taffeta bodice as she shoved baked beans down fractious children, Catherine had jagged a large hole in the bodice. At this rate, she wouldn’t have time to wash her hair. As Carmine was pathologically stingy he had ordered Catherine to come home immediately after William Tell to relieve the babysitter and not even stay for drinks in the interval. Catherine fingered a large bruise on her left cheek and hoped make-up would hide it.

The soloist in Liszt’s Piano Concerto that evening was Benny Basanovich, a half-French, half-Russian pig, who could only play loudly. He therefore chose pieces (and women, said Viking) where he could bang away. Good looking in a brutal fashion, Benny had thick black ram’s curls falling to his shoulders, a hooked nose, slanting eyes beneath thick brown eyebrows and a big, light red mouth. A Shepherd Denston artist, he’d always been wildly jealous of Abby because she was more famous than him, but he got much more work than he deserved because Howie fancied him.

After a brief telephone call to Lionel, both men decided that Lionel would follow Benny and bring in the orchestra as necessary, and that everyone would ignore Abby.

By two o’clock, the beauticians had Abby corsetted, dressed, made-up and coiffeured. She was then subjected to an interview and a long photographic shoot with the Daily Telegraph, followed by a press conference and photo-call in the burning heat.

‘Can’t I even take off my panty hose?’ pleaded Abby.

‘Certainly not, Luvlilegs have taken a full-page ad in the programme,’ said Crystelle, shutting up such subversion with a huge powder-puff slap in Abby’s face. ‘Always remember to brush powder upwards, it raises the hairs on your face and gives you a far livelier expression.’

‘Don’t you look a poppet,’ cried Peggy Parker in ecstasy. ‘What a transformation.’

Peggy herself, already made-up and wearing a white kimono over her massive corseted bulk, looked like an all-in wrestler. On the window-sill, as more dark blue lines were drawn under her lashes, Abby noticed a gift-wrapped present.

‘To Abigail Rosen, Thank you indeed for a very pleasant concert, sincerely, Peggy Parker,’ said the accompanying card.

There was one for Benny, too.

Out of the window Abby could see a beautiful sunken garden, crammed with red, white and blue rock plants. She wanted to dive into the lily pond in the centre, crack open her aching head and never wake again. Catching sight of a dreadful drag queen in the mirror, she gave a moan of anguish. But Abby had never lacked courage, one hundred thousand pounds for the RSO was worth twelve hours of humiliation.

The sweet heady smell of honeysuckle and tobacco plants grew stronger with the coming of night, mingling with the hundred different ‘fragrances’ of Mrs Parker’s invited guests who had paid one hundred and fifty pounds for their tickets and hospitality throughout the evening, and who were now noisily spilling out of the VIP tent. Most of the women had streaked hair and wore a lot of make-up which looked better as the light faded. They enjoyed a concert, they knew the tunes from Classic FM and it was such fun to look at each other’s jewels and clothes and see who’d been asked.

They all longed for a word with George Hungerford, whose manly, attractively rumpled face was always looking out from the financial pages, but sadly he was being monopolized by their husbands, hoping perhaps that some of his huge success might rub off on them.

George, in fact, was in a foul temper. He had somehow mopped up Eldred and persuaded him to play, but he was fed up with being bossed around by Peggy Parker. He had also just had a frightful row with Benny, who had refused to come out of his dressing-room and give a ‘very pleasant’ concert to anyone unless he was paid cash up front.

The orchestra were nearly all in their seats. Miss Parrott had availed herself of Peggy Parker’s offer of ge-owns at trade. A symphony of harebell-blue tulle with a mauve-blue beehive to match, she smiled across at Dimitri, the Principal Cellist, who started the concert.

Knickers was in a terrible twist, again, running around in his shirt sleeves, livid that he’d had to hand over his white dinner-jacket to Francis the Good Loser, who’d brought tails by mistake. Francis had also forgotten his black socks, and rectified the mistake by smothering his ankles with Old Henry’s black boot polish.

Catherine Jones was late. As a Second Oboe wasn’t needed in William Tell, Ninion propped up the bar and festered. He wasn’t going to help them out if Cathie didn’t show up.

At half-past seven on the dot, Mrs Parker, resplendant in a diamond tiara and red bustier with matching organdie skirt, swept down the hill in a white open-topped Bentley. Beside her, a third of her size, but radiating equal complacency, sat Sonny in a white silk tunic. With his lank dark hair loose round his silly beaky face, he looked like a parrot peering out of its baize cloth.

Dismounting from their triumphal car, Mrs Parker and Sonny were clapped onto the rostrum by the audience led by Sonny’s claque from soft furnishing.

They were followed by Abby. Clad in an electric-blue lurex shirtwaister which fell to mid-calf, she was shod in electric-blue shoes, whose four-inch heels kept falling into the cracks in the ground. Due to the tightness of her skirt it took her three goes to climb onto the platform. She was bowed down by vast rubies at her neck, ears and wrists. Her hair was bouffant, lacquered and blonded, her make-up thick as a raddled old tart in the early evening sunshine.

The orchestra, ably led by Lionel, were clutching their sides.

Flora was torn by horror and helpless laughter. Oh poor Abby. Marcus who loved Abby was absolutely furious; he wanted to punch Mrs Parker and George on the nose. He was also having increasing trouble breathing because of the heat, dust and pollen, and because the chauffeurs were keeping their engines going to enjoy the air-conditioning as they waited in the car-park.

Viking who had not forgotten the beauty of Abby’s figure in a red body-stocking was equally appalled.

‘Jesus,’ he muttered to Blue, ‘she looks like Michael Heseltine in drag.’

‘Joan of Arc burnt at the stake did not do more for France than I have for this orchestra,’ hissed Abby to the First Violins as she passed.

‘Throw a few faggots round the base then,’ murmured Lionel to Bill Thackery, the co-leader.

‘Plenty of those around,’ said Bill, who was very straight, glaring at Sonny’s claque dominating the third row.

‘Well done Abby, you look chumpion,’ lied George.

Having countenanced this transformation, he had to support it publicly, but was secretly horrified.

Mrs Parker and Sonny had already mounted the platform. Vast and tiny, a telephone box beside a small snowman, they were joined by an electric-blue beanpole, and the photographers went berserk.

‘Peggy’s done it again, have to hand it to her, the gal’s got style,’ chorused her friends.