‘Stemp has something that made me sit up,’ agrees Olly, swimming with the tide.

‘I liked his playing very much,’ adds Sandra Adams quietly.

‘I am so glad most of you feel that way,’ I sum up, tailoring their comments to my requirements. ‘I would not wish to dissent from your collective verdict, and I fully endorse Maria Olszewska as the outright winner. Her Chopin was quite exceptional and her aplomb uncanny in one so young. She is almost the complete artist.

‘But I am not unattuned to string playing and I did hear a distinct originality in Peter Stemp’s articulation, which is what I listen for in young players. Technical proficiency, you see, we take for granted nowadays. Anyone who enters a competition at this level can play, and most can play extremely well. What one hopes for is a spark of personality that will set the players apart from all the competent others on the professional circuit. Stemp did not play blindingly well, but his phrasing was out of the ordinary. I won’t bother you with chapter and verse, since I have already caused Professor Brind to nod off. But his rubato was sufficiently unusual to prick my ear and I have heard every prince of the instrument from Kreisler on.’

‘So, what do you suggest we do?’ demands Olly, looking rudely at his watch.

‘I suspect,’ I continued, ‘that the boy is suffering from a lack of intellectual hinterland. He seems to be trying out effects without quite knowing why he does them or what they fit. What he needs is a broader cultural context, the kind of education the Germans call Bildung, which I am afraid has vanished from our schools in these materialistic times. With your permission, Director, I should like to make an extra vires intervention. In addition to presenting the Tawside prize and the various consolations we have agreed for the losers, I will tonight announce Peter Stemp as the winner of the 1991 Simmonds Foundation Award, with a gift of two thousand pounds as a travel and study grant.’

Olly is chuffed, almost speechless. ‘That’s incredibly generous of you, Mr Simmonds,’ he splutters. ‘I can’t tell you what it’ll mean to people up here to have a Simmonds winner – and what a boost for the event. Everyone will go home with something. There are no losers in Tawside tonight, only winners.’

‘All must have prizes,’ mutters Brenda Murch, in heavy italics. ‘Very politically correct.’ Fred Burrows, who is no fool, shoots me a quizzical look. I smile benignly, gather my papers and lead the judges ceremonially back into the Clement Attlee Hall.