Our glow at her emergence is dulled by Olly Adams, sounding petulant. ‘Doesn’t anyone reckon on the Asian kid?’ he mopes. ‘I’ve got him ahead on points.’ I catch a tic of irritation in Sandra’s eye and wonder if all is well with the Adams family.

‘What about you, Fred?’ persists Olly, turning on the director of Music. ‘Don’t you think the kid’s a bit special for his age and, er, background?’

Burrows is in a bind: his budget is controlled by Arts and Leisure Services and he can’t afford a falling-out with the director. He likes his job, has no life outside it. I watch his eager brow furrowing in search of a diplomatic formula. ‘Oh, ever so good, Olly,’ purrs Fred winningly. ‘I’ve got him down as a candidate for one of our junior proms. But there’s no question – that Maria is a class apart. She could play for England in the next Queen Elisabeth.’

‘Well, can’t we give the boy a consolation prize, show his people how much we appreciate his effort?’ persists Adams.

‘What would be your view, Mr Chairman?’ interjects Sandra Adams. I admire her timing, letting Olly have his say but saving him from further foolishness.

‘My feeling,’ I venture, after a moment’s faked reflection, ‘is that we must be careful not to blur the Tawside Young Musicians’ award with supernumerary presentations. The Mayor is anxious to establish an uncompromisingly high standard. He has charged us with picking a winner, and that’s what we must do.

‘However, given the encouraging popular response, it might be appropriate to announce that, in view of the exceptional merit of the contestants, the council will tomorrow award scholarships to all the runners-up. That way, you can milk an extra day’s publicity and appease the more, er, vociferous sections of the audience.’

‘Some of them are a bit fired up,’ admits Olly. ‘But that’s a very helpful suggestion, Mr Chairman, and I’m sure we can find room in the budget. Sandi, will you see to it?’ Sandra Adams, as we return to the Clement Attlee Hall, flashes me a wry grin of complicity. I catch her drift. Myrtle, in a marital spat, once accused me unfairly of manipulating my intellectual inferiors. I’d guess that Sandi unthinkingly does much the same, stringing along her tufty spouse like a straw puppet. Poor Olly.