Mick looks at him and cannot say a word. Then Fred stares up at Mick and with a slight, though uncharacteristic, show of emotion, he takes his arm and whispers angrily: “Huge efforts, Mick. Huge efforts that come to nothing. It’s always the same.”

Mick is surprised and looks blank. “This discussion’s becoming interesting. I need a cigarette, but I left mine in the hotel. Wait for me here while I go and buy some.”

Fred nods sadly, as if defeated.

His friend goes off to the village.

Out of the silence, the intense chirr of a cicada strikes up. Fred turns towards the source of the sound, drawn towards it as if in a dream.

*

He ends up among the trees, where there are hundreds of cicadas. Then a bird starts up a strange mean-spirited twitter, drowning them out. Fred is attracted by this new sound. He forgets about the cicadas and goes off to find the bird. He stares up into the trees, looking for it, but the bird keeps itself hidden. Fred walks on towards the edge of the wood. A newcollection of sounds is added to the chorus. Cowbells.

Fred comes out of the woods and an immense soft hillside opens before his eyes in the sunlight. Dotted about the meadows are fifty or so grazing cows shaking their fifty or so bells at random. His eyes light up at the scene. He sits down on a rock, still staring at the cows.

He listens to the discordant layers of sound: cowbells, cicadas, bird.

At this point, Fred concentrates and closes his eyes. Very gently he starts to move one hand just like a conductor and, as if he had conjured a spell, several of the cowbells fall silent. Others are still ringing; they no longer create an anarchy of sound, but rather the notes are rolled out in a melodic manner. With another wave of his hand, Fred elegantly stops the remaining cowbells so that only two are left ringing out in alternate notes.

A grand gesture of his arm, as if directed behind him, and the bird in the wood joins in with the two cowbells. Then, with both his arms, Fred invites the chorus to join in: hundreds of cicadas accompany the bird’s solo and the counter-melody of the cowbells to create a symphony of nature.

Fred still has his eyes closed and is smiling to himself. For the first time he appears to be happy.

Selecting the sounds he has to play with, he is engaged in something wonderful. He is composing.

*

Mick comes back to the spot where they left each other in the meadow. He looks around, but there is no sign of Fred. He lights a cigarette. While doing so, his eyes make out something moving in a distant paddock. A white horse.

Mick then does the only thing he knows how to do: he places the fingers of both hands together, as film directors do, to simulate the frame of a camera image. He closes one eye and, making a tracking shot with the rectangle formed from his fingers, he follows the beautiful horse as it trots around.