of the great library if we’re interested: every other Wednesday afternoon at three o’clock.’
‘Oh, well, I might have a look in,’ I said. ‘They could be quite informative.’
‘I don’t like history,’ said Whimbrel. ‘It’s boring.’
‘It depends how it’s presented,’ I countered. ‘Why don’t you come along and give it a try?’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘If you’re going, I’ll go.’
Before leaving I happened to glance out of the window one last time.
‘Now there’s a sight to behold,’ I said. ‘Look at Jupiter.’
Whimbrel joined me at the window and together we admired Jupiter’s bright presence high in the southern sky.
‘Marvellous,’ he said. ‘Now I must write that down straight away. Where’s my notepad?’
Whimbrel had mislaid it somewhere. He was still conducting a search when I said goodnight and departed. I was coming through the door at the bottom of the stairway when I heard him call down from above.
‘Did you say Neptune?’
‘No,’ I called back. ‘Jupiter.’
‘Ah yes, Jupiter. Goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight.’
It occurred to me that this wasn’t actually ‘goodnight’ for Whimbrel: rather, it was only the beginning of his working day. A long and lonely vigil lay ahead.
For my part, I intended to take advantage of the lateness of the hour and catch up on some much-needed piano practice. This was necessary, I’d concluded, if I was to fulfil my duties correctly. After all, who’d ever heard of a composer who couldn’t play anything?
The cake reared out of the gloom. I entered via the main door and wandered down into the orchestra pit, where I was pleased to see a light glowing dimly over the piano. All the other instruments, I noticed, had been tidied away in their cases. I turned the light up slightly, then sat down and played the chord of G major a few times, just to get started. Next I went through a series of major and minor scales, arpeggios and broken chords. These all went fine until I attempted to play some major scales in contrary motion. As usual I got stuck halfway and had to begin again. When I got stuck for a third time I gave up and sat there striking random notes. This reminded me that I ought to find some proper pieces of music to try. Maybe I should consult with Greylag on the matter the next day. I was about to resume the minor scales when I heard a quiet murmur coming from somewhere behind me. I looked around and saw nothing, but when I turned the light up further I realised there were figures lurking at the back of the auditorium.
‘Who’s there?’ I demanded.
‘Pardon us, sir,’ came the reply. ‘We didn’t mean to disturb you.’
The voice belonged to Greylag. I walked up and found a large proportion of the orchestra sitting in three rows of hard seats.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.
‘Waiting to go to sleep, sir,’ said Greylag.
‘What do you mean “waiting”?’
‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘we’ve only got one bed between us, so we all have to take our turns.’
‘Show me,’ I ordered.
Greylag led me beyond the orchestra pit to an antechamber. Inside was a broad wooden cot in which a dozen cellos lay side by side, all fast asleep.
‘The bassoons have their turn next, sir,’ explained Greylag, ‘followed by the trumpets and trombones.’
‘And meanwhile you all sit waiting in the hard seats?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then why don’t you use the soft seats at the front?’ I enquired. ‘Surely, they’d be much more comfortable.’
‘It’s not allowed,’ said Greylag.
‘Whyever not?’
‘I’m not sure, sir.’
‘Right!’ I snapped. ‘Not allowed, eh? Well, we’ll soon see about that!’
I marched hurriedly to the main door where a noticeboard in an alcove displayed various rules and regulations pertaining to the cake. I read through them and then walked back.
‘You’re quite correct, Greylag,’ I said. ‘You’re not allowed in the soft seats.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Unfortunately, you’re not allowed in the hard ones either,’ I continued. ‘They’re all reserved for commoners.’
A doleful look crossed Greylag’s face, but he said nothing.
‘I’m sorry, Greylag,’ I said. ‘Rules are rules.’
In the subdued hush that followed I went over to the piano. I sat down and began working my way through the minor scales again, one by one, until, predictably, I got stuck.
‘May I, sir?’
I glanced to my left and saw Greylag standing nearby. Something in his manner suggested he wanted to help me, so I inclined my head a little and waited.
‘If the thumb is allowed to pass underneath the forefinger,’ he said, ‘then the hand is able to flow more freely along the keyboard.’
He demonstrated