I leant over the strings and practised another little phrase to myself, and for a few seconds nobody spoke. Then I asked: “So what sort of music do you guys play?”

Tilo shrugged. “Sonja and I play a number of instruments between us. We both play keyboards. I am fond of the clarinet. Sonja is a very fine violinist, and also a splendid singer. I suppose what we like to do best is to perform our traditional Swiss folk music, but in a contemporary manner. Sometimes even what you might call a radical manner. We take inspiration from great composers who took a similar path. Jan

“But that kind of music,” Sonja said, “we don’t play so much now.”

They exchanged glances with what I thought was just a hint of tension. Then Tilo’s usual smile was back on his face.

“Yes, as Sonja points out, in this real world, much of the time, we must play what our audience is most likely to appreciate. So we perform many hits. Beatles, the Carpenters. Some more recent songs. This is perfectly satisfying.”

“What about ABBA?” I asked on an impulse, then immediately regretted it. But Tilo didn’t seem to sense any mockery.

“Yes, indeed, we do some ABBA. ‘Dancing Queen.’ That one always goes down well. In fact, it is on ‘Dancing Queen’ I actually do a little singing myself, a little harmony part. Sonja will tell you I have the most terrible voice. So we must make sure to perform this song only when our customers are right in the middle of their meal, when there is for them no chance of escape!”

He did his big laugh, and Sonja laughed too, though not so loudly. A power-cyclist, kitted out in what looked like a black wetsuit, went speeding by us, and for the next few moments, we all watched his frantic, receding shape.

“I went to Switzerland once,” I said eventually. “A couple of summers ago. Interlaken. I stayed at the youth hostel there.”

“Ah yes, Interlaken. A beautiful place. Some Swiss people scoff at it. They say it is just for the tourists. But Sonja and I always love to perform there. In fact, to play in Interlaken on a summer evening, to happy people from all over the world, it is something very wonderful. I hope you enjoyed your visit there.”

“Yeah, it was great.”

“There is a restaurant in Interlaken where we play a few nights every summer. For our performance, we position ourselves under the restaurant’s canopy, so we are facing the dining tables, which of course are outdoors on such an evening. And as we perform, we are able to see all the tourists, eating and talking together under the stars. And behind the tourists, we see the big field, where during the day the paragliders are landing, but which at night is lit up by the lamps along the Higer, the M

“That restaurant,” Sonja said. “Last year, the manager made us wear full costumes while we performed, even though it was so hot. It was very uncomfortable, and we said, what difference does it make, why must we have our bulky waistcoats and scarves and hats? In just our blouses, we look neat and still very Swiss. But the restaurant manager tells us, we put on the full costumes or we don’t play. Our choice, he says, and walks away, just like that.”

“But Sonja, that is the same in any job. There is always a uniform, something the employer insists you must wear. It is the same for bankers! And in our case, at least it is something we believe in. Swiss culture. Swiss tradition.”

Once again something vaguely awkward hovered between them, but it was just for a second or two, and then they both smiled as they fixed their gazes back on my guitar. I thought I should say something, so I said:

“I think I’d enjoy that. Being able to play in different countries. It must keep you sharp, really aware of your audiences.”

“Yes,” Tilo said, “it is good that we perform to all kinds of people. And not only in Europe. All in all, we have got to know so many cities so well.”

“D

“D

“Earlier this year,” Sonja said, “we went to De leave many messages. No reply. We arrive in D

Tilo made a chuckling noise. “I think perhaps Peter heard enough of our music while he was growing up! The poor boy, you see, he had to listen to us rehearsing, day after day.”

“I suppose it can be a bit tricky,” I said. “Having children and being musicians.”

“We only had the one child,” Tilo said, “so it was not so bad. Of course we were fortunate. When we had to travel, and we couldn’t take him with us, his grandparents were always delighted to help. And when Peter was older, we were able to send him to a good boarding school. Again, his grandparents came to the rescue. We could not afford such school fees otherwise. So we were very fortunate.”

“Yes, we were fortunate,” Sonja said. “Except Peter hated his school.”

The earlier good atmosphere was definitely slipping away. In an effort to cheer things up, I said quickly: “Well, anyway, it looks like you both really enjoy your work.”

“Oh yes, we enjoy our work,” said Tilo. “It’s everything to us. Even so, we very much appreciate a vacation. Do you know, this is our first proper vacation in three years.”

This made me feel really bad all over again, and I thought about having another go at persuading them to change hotels, but I could see how ridiculous this would look. I just had to hope Hag Fraser pulled her finger out. Instead, I said:

“Look, if you like, I’ll play you that song I was working on earlier. I haven’t finished it, and I wouldn’t usually do this. But since you heard some of it anyway, I don’t mind playing you what I’ve got so far.”

The smile returned to Sonja’s face. “Yes,” she said, “please do let us hear. It sounded so beautiful.”

As I got ready to play, they shifted again, so they were facing the view like before, their backs to me. But this time, instead of cuddling, they sat there on the grass with surprisingly upright postures, each with a hand up to the brow to shield away the sun. They stayed like that all the time I played, peculiarly still, and what with the way each of them cast a long afternoon shadow, they looked like matching art exhibits. I brought my incomplete song to a meandering halt, and for a moment they didn’t move. Then their postures relaxed, and they applauded, though perhaps not quite as enthusiastically as the last time. Tilo got to his feet, muttering compliments, then helped Sonja up. It was only when you saw how they did this that you remembered they were really quite middle-aged. Maybe they were just tired. For all I know, they might have done a fair bit of walking before they’d come across me. All the same, it seemed to me they found it quite a struggle to get up.

“You’ve entertained us so marvellously,” Tilo was saying. “Now we are the tourists, and someone else plays for us! It makes a pleasant change.”

“I would love to hear that song when it is finished,” Sonja said, and she seemed really to mean it. “Maybe one day I will hear it on the radio. Who knows?”

“Yes,” Tilo said, “and then Sonja and I will play our cover version to our customers!” His big laugh rang through the air. Then he did a polite little bow and said: “So today we are in your debt three times over. A splendid lunch. A splendid choice of hotel. And a splendid concert here in the hills!”

As we said our goodbyes, I had an urge to tell them the truth. To confess that I’d deliberately sent them to the worst hotel in the area, and warn them to move out while there was still time. But the affectionate way they shook my hand made it all the harder to come out with this. And then they were going down the hill and I was alone on the bench again.

THE CAFE HAD CLOSED by the time I came down from the hills. Maggie and Geoff looked exhausted. Maggie said it had been their busiest day yet and seemed pleased about it. But when Geoff made the same point over supper-which we ate in the cafe from various left-overs-he put it like it was a negative thing, like it was awful they’d been made to work so hard and where had I been to help? Maggie asked how my afternoon had gone, and I didn’t mention Tilo and Sonja-that seemed too complicated-but told her I’d gone up to the Sugarloaf to work on my song. And when she asked if I’d made any progress, and I said yes, I was making real headway now, Geoff got up and marched out moodily, even though there was still food on his plate. Maggie pretended not to notice, and fair enough, he came back a few minutes later with a can of beer, and sat there reading his newspaper and not saying much. I didn’t want to be the cause of a rift between my sister and brother-in-law, so I excused myself soon after that and went upstairs to work some more on the song.

My room, which was such an inspiration in the daytime, wasn’t nearly so appealing after dark. For a start, the curtains didn’t pull all the way across, which meant if I opened a window in the stifling heat, insects from miles around would see my light and come charging in. And the light I had was just this one bare bulb hanging down from the ceiling rose, which cast gloomy shadows all round the room, making it look all the more obviously the spare room it was. That evening, I was wanting light to work by, to jot down lyrics as they occurred to me. But it got far too stuffy, and in the end I switched off the bulb, pulled back the curtains, and opened the windows wide. Then I sat in the bay with my guitar, just the way I did in the day.

I’d been there like that for about an hour, playing through various ideas for the bridge passage, when there was a knock and Maggie stuck her head round the door. Of course everything was in darkness, but outside down on the terrace there was a security light, so I could just about make out her face. She had on this awkward smile, and I thought she was about to ask me to come and help with yet another chore. She came right in, closed the door behind her and said:

“I’m sorry, love. But Geoff’s really tired tonight, he’s been working so hard. And now he says he wants to watch his movie in peace?”

She said it like that, like it was a question, and it took me a moment to realise she was asking me to stop playing my music.

“But I’m working on something important here,” I said.

“I know. But he’s really tired tonight, and he says he can’t relax because of your guitar.”

“What Geoff needs to realise,” I said, “is that just as he’s got his work to do, I’ve got mine.”

My sister seemed to think about this. Then she did a big sigh. “I don’t think I ought to report that back to Geoff.”

“Why not? Why don’t you? It’s time he got the message.”

“Why not? Because I don’t think he’d be very pleased, that’s why not. And I don’t really think he’d accept that his work and your work are quite on the same level.”