We all looked up. Seated in the box was three persons. One was a ginger Irishman. The second, a pretty but sort of expressionless woman on the wrong side of forty. The third was a dark-haired, glowering man with huge black moustaches.

‘Pete and ’is Tongs,’ continued Billy Skittles. ‘Mr O’Kane, sir?’

The Irishman rubbed his bristly red chin and grinned. ‘Oh I loved them. LOVED THEM! I’d say I loved them a hundred and fifty billion per cent. No, two hundred and fifty billion—’

‘Thank you!’ cried Billy, cutting him off. ‘Miss Polly?’

The woman seemed about to speak but her creaseless face remained unchanged. At last, she stuck two thumbs up. The crowd cheered. Madam and me joined in.

Then Billy turned to the last judge. ‘And finally … Mr Mortlock?’ Madam and me exchanged a glance.

But this cove remained silent. The crowd murmured expectantly as he stroked his luxuriant moustaches like a villain in a melodrama.

‘I’m afraid … ’

The audience groaned in despair.

‘… you won’t be … ’

Deeper groans!

‘… disappointed to learn … ’

Hope in our breasts!

‘… that you’re going through … ’

Deep joy!

‘… to the stage door … ’

No!

‘… to take a cab …’

Now we was baffled.

‘… to go around the block – and then join the others on stage in the final of the All-Britannia Aptitude Contest!’

Everyone cheered. We joined in. You couldn’t help getting swept up in it all, see.

Billy banged his gavel for a bit of hush and gripped his lapel. ‘Capital! Capital! Now then – really, listen – we his spoiling you – the time ’as come, my friends! Her what you has hall taken to your ’earts and then some! Have I seen ’er like? Not since Inkerman, where I got this ’ere stump, no indeed!’

The audience began to shush each other, thrilled with expectation. Billy Skittles cleared his throat and bellowed: ‘The Siren of Cripplegate herself. Miss … Anne … Dante!!’

At this pronouncement, silence fell like snow. And in that moment, a beautiful, crystal clear voice rose from nowhere. It was singing some opera or other and I turned to Madam, as I often do, for elucidation. ‘O Mio Bambino Caro,’ she breathed, closing her eyes in joy. The sound was simply incredible. Like listening to a frozen white waterfall tinkling into life. As pure and wonderful as you could possibly imagine.

And then the singer herself swept on-stage; a stunning brunette, with an impish look, dressed in a flowing white gown, what you might imagine on an angel. The whole theatre was filled with her fantastic, swooping voice as though she was spinning something delicate and fragile as lace in the air over our heads.