We were to live in some wretched London suburb. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. Ann Veronica jumped up to get her the cardtable. And in the vestry was the sword of monsieur le major. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. If you live, well and good; if you die, well and good.
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