Fred Ballinger gives a shrug. He has no particular feelings about it.

“Are you enjoying your holiday here?”

“Yes, I am. Very much, thank you.”

“Have you been coming here long?”

“More than twenty years. I used to come with my wife. Then, as I have so many friends here, I carried on coming on my own.”

“But why Switzerland?”

“It’s close to Italy. After London and New York, I was the conductor for an orchestra in Venice for twenty-four years.”

“Of course, how stupid of me! This must be a very relaxing place.”

“Indeed, a most relaxing place. Nothing more.”

The fifty-year-old smiles. Fred does not.

“Do you still conduct or compose, maestro?”

“No, I’ve retired.”

“Needless to say, like everyone else, I’m a great admirer of yours.”

“Thank you.”

The fifty-year-old smiles again. “Maestro, as I mentioned to you before, I work as the special events organiser for Buckingham Palace.”

Fred rouses himself a little. “You work for the Queen?”

“Well, almost, in a sort of a way.”

“Good. I find the idea of monarchy touching.”

The fifty-year-old is surprised. “And why do you find monarchies touching, if I might ask?”

“Because they’re vulnerable. You only have to get rid of one person and, all of a sudden, the whole world is changed. It’s the same with marriage.”

“Her Majesty would be honoured if you would accept the honour of a knighthood this coming June.”

Fred Ballinger lets a small smile escape his lips. “Do you know what Eric Satie said when they offered him the Légion d’honneur? He said, ‘It’s not enough to refuse it, you shouldn’t even deserve it!’ But I’m not Eric Satie. And please forgive me, I have the bad habit of quoting people. Too much so.”

“Her Majesty will be happy to know you’ve accepted.”

“Her Majesty’s never been happy.”

The Queen’s emissary skates over the comment, mildly embarrassed. “Furthermore, the investiture coincides with Prince Philip’s birthday and the Queen would like to hold a concert for him by the London Philharmonic at the Wimbledon Theatre to which, for reasons that remain obscure to me, the Prince is very attached, and Her Majesty would be very happ . . . that is, honoured, if you would conduct the orchestra in selections from your own compositions.”

“I haven’t conducted for a long time.”

The fifty-year-old smiles. “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten how it’s done.”

Fred Ballinger gives the matter some serious reflection. “No, I haven’t forgotten how it’s done.”

The emissary gives another radiant smile. “Prince Philip and the Queen will be ecstatic when they hear your celebrated ‘Simple Songs’.”

With great calm, almost with resignation, Fred says: “I won’t be performing any of my ‘Simple Songs’.”

“Why not?”

“Personal reasons.”

“But we can have the great Sumi Jo as soprano.”

“Sumi Jo isn’t the right person.”

“You tell me the right soprano and you shall have her.”

“There’s no-one who is right.”

The decision looks to be irrevocable. Fred Ballinger starts to read the paper again. He has already forgotten all the words of praise. The emissary is taken aback. His head droops.