Alphonso, the hugely fat tenor, seemed to be singing. ‘Comfort ye, comfort ye,’ directly to him.

Marcus also noticed, because of a shortage of basses, George Hungerford had joined the choir and could be heard belting out, ‘Oonto Oos a Boy is Born’ in true Hoodersfield fashion. Marcus thought how attractive George was, so aggressively macho, compared to the bobbing Adam’s apples and waggling beards around him.

George, in fact, was very happy. That very afternoon the Ministry of the Environment had overturned Rutminster District Council’s decision and given him planning permission to cover Cowslip Hill with houses. Now he wouldn’t have to revert to his contingency plan of letting New Age Travellers onto the site at the dead of night, which normally melted any opposition.

His orchestra were also playing champion, he couldn’t have borne it if they’d let him down in front of Dame Hermione, who’d been all he’d ever dreamt of and had asked him up for a night-cap in the Rupert of the Rhine Suite at the Cotchester Hilton after the après-concert party.

The dazzling overhead lights gave a blond halo to Hermione’s glossy brown curls. Monocles glinted in the eyes of a thousand colonels and George caught his breath as she slithered out of her sleek, dark fur to reveal shoulders as smooth and white as sand dunes, rising out of a deep purple velvet dress. Looking up at the monitor, George longed to kiss the blue hollows made by her collar bones, the hairs rose at the back of his neck at the unbearable purity of her voice: ‘There were shepherds abiding in the fields.’

Because of the late start and the shortage of lavatories, it was decided to dispense with the first interval which had many of the RSO and the elderly audience crossing their legs in agony. Not so the Cotchester Chamber Orchestra in the gallery, who’d all been to a Christmas party before the concert and who kept slipping in and out with a great banging of doors throughout the second half. In delight, they also counted the number of people reading their programmes or plaques on the wall, or gently snoozing, until the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ and a good shout woke everyone up.

Moving her body like a rock star in her dark blue suit, Abby abandoned her stick and directed the orchestra and choir with clenched fists and power salutes. Backed up by Davie going berserk on his drums and by Barry and his basses, all of whom knew how to swing it, her interpretation was gloriously exhilarating, and made the lovely descending chorale of ‘The Kingdom of this World’ all the more moving, leaving the audience reeling.

Now it was time for the Bishop of Cotchester to give his little sermon, working in Honesty Insurance, whose staff had been waving banners of the logo like football supporters every time the cameras panned to the audience.

‘Awfully chic to match his ring to Dame Hermione’s dress,’ whispered Nellie, as exuding gravitas and pomposity the Bishop mounted the rostrum.

‘If we behave ourselves on this earth,’ he thundered, glaring at the CCO up in the gallery, who were guilty of even higher jinks than their Rutminster rivals, ‘it is an insurance against our going to hell.’

He then carried on, to the rippling snoring counterpoint of some drunk in the gallery, to say people should be honest in their deeds and in their words, and repeated that Honesty was the best Policy, so many times that Randy, handing his hip-flask down to Jerry the Joker, muttered that the old bugger must be getting a bloody good whack of free pension for his services. Glancing round apprehensively to see if George had overheard, Jerry was glad to see George’s anger was entirely focused on Flora, who had unearthed Foxie from under her chair and was sending Clare and Candy into fits by putting his paws over his furry ears to blot out the Bishop’s jawing.

The drunk was snoring even louder.

‘Dunno whether to put a pillow over his face or shoot him,’ said Randy, passing his hip-flask to Davie Buckle who was still recovering from his frenzied activity in the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’.

‘Shoot him and the Bishop,’ said Davie.

In fact the Bishop rabbited on for so long that Abby nodded to Julian to start tuning up. This was the moment the audience had been waiting for: the re-run of the single that had topped the pop charts, and sold over a million copies: ‘Hermione Sings Redeemer’.

Off slithered the dark fur again as Hermione rose to her feet. What a trim waist beneath those wonderful knockers, thought George, his brain misting over.

Aware that the Bishop had made them even later, Abby kept the strings and the bassoons moving on in the opening bars. But there was no way Hermione was going to be hurried.

Eyes widened, hands clasped, she smiled angelically at her swooning public.

‘I know that my Redeemer leeveth,’ rang out joyfully on the arctic, uncentrally heated air, and the audience burst into a round of applause as if they were listening to Frank Sinatra.

Hermione put up a white hand to hush them: ‘Thank you, thank you, good people of Cotchester. I’m so happy to be in your lovely city again. From the beginning, Abigail.’

Abby gritted her teeth.

Hermione’s voice could crack glasses. Unfortunately this second time around it woke up the drunk in the gallery, who, taking a swig from his bottle of Southern Comfort decided to sing along.

‘I know that moy Redeemer leeeeeveth,’ he caterwauled, wickedly mimicking Hermione, as he clasped his hands, composed his slack mouth in a perfect O, lengthened all his Es, and opened his bloodshot little eyes as far as they would go.

‘Oh bliss, there is a God,’ muttered Flora.

‘And though worms deestroy theese body,’ sang Hermione, who’d gone bright red from embarrassment and trying to drown him.

‘And though worms deestroy theeese bod-ee,’ quavered the drunk, to a crescendo of furious hissing from a thousand apoplectic colonels. (Gentlemen should have been allowed to wear swords.)

Unfortunately Hermione had many bars of rest in the aria for the drunk to fill in.

‘I know,’ he began again, missing top E with a mighty screech.

Monica Baddingham, in the choir, strained her eyes to see if — horrors — he was one of Dame Edith’s musicians in disguise.

Looking down, Abby saw that the RSO had corpsed. Neither Jerry the Joker, nor Solemn Steve could keep their lips round their reeds. The strings, even Julian, were hunched over their music, to hide their frantically shaking shoulders. Randy, Carmine and Davie were going even redder in the face trying not to laugh, Flora wasn’t even trying. Foxie was conducting again, with gracious sweeps and bows to Candy and Clare who were stuffing handkerchiefs into their mouths, and to Fat Isobel who was clutching her massive sides.

I’ll kill that drunk and that minx after the concert, raged George. Hemmed in by beards and Adam’s apples he was in anguish.

‘In my flesh shall I see God,’ screeched the drunk, taking another swig. Up in the gallery the CCO were in ecstasy.

‘Throw him out,’ shouted their First Bassoon.

‘Yesh, throw him out,’ agreed the Second Horn.

‘No,’ yelled the First Trumpet, who’d drunk even more whisky. ‘Throw him down, he might kill a fiddler.’

A gale of laughter swept the gallery.

Hugo, however, was watching Abby’s rigid shoulders and her clenched fist on her baton.

‘Look at L’Appassionata,’ he murmured to his First Horn, ‘she’s going to flip.’

As Hermione hit top G with an almighty squawk, George left his seat, punching fellow basses out of the way, and Abby stopped the orchestra and swung round.

The fury in her blazing yellow eyes was so palpable, many of the audience felt they had been burnt by lightning and afterwards swore that all the candles round the cathedral dimmed before flickering back into life.

‘Just pack it in, right,’ yelled Abby.

‘And though worms deestroy theese body,’ warbled the drunk, waving his bottle at her.

Abby’s voice rose: ‘I said pack it in. We’ve driven through snow and blizzard this evening to play to you, and Dame Hermione and the other soloists have flown thousands of miles to sing. If you don’t get that asshole out of here we won’t play another note.’

There was a stunned, appalled pause, as a thousand deaf-aids were switched up to discover if they had heard right.

Then the lurking Press went beserk, simultaneously trying to photograph Abby and Hermione and the drunk as he was noisily evicted.

Dame Hermione, who knew how to milk a situation, cast down her eyes. Abby reached across the pregnant alto and put a comforting hand on her white shaking shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, let’s do it again. We’ll skip the introduction, five bars after eleven, and one-’

Hermione rose to the occasion, a woman of sorrows, eyes brimming with tears, moved for once by genuine grief at her own humiliation. At the end the audience cheered her to the shadowy rafters.

As she lumbered off the stage down into the side-aisle, one of her high heels fell down the soi-disant central-heating grill, depositing her into the waiting arms of George Hungerford. Her breasts were so soft, it was like catching a giant pillow.

‘Dame Hermione, I’m bluddy proud of you,’ said George, offering her the remains of Randy’s hip-flask.

THIRTY-NINE


The concert was followed by a splendid party at Dame Edith’s house in the Close. Normally the musicians would have been excluded from such a bash, but Dame Edith, who’d always voted Labour, felt that after such a polar trek, they deserved a treat. The coaches would leave in half an hour, which gave everyone time for a bite and several drinks. A route avoiding snow had been charted. They’d be home by two.