The record played on, but he seemed to have forgotten it until he lifted the piano lid, propped it into place, and said, ‘There’s a switch on the record player.’ He wiggled his finger in its general direction. ‘A silver switch marked “cue”. Push that and the needle arm will lift painlessly away from the record and you’ll be able to move the arm back to the rest.’

And then sing. I could picture the page of the hymnbook at school, all of us standing there in blue and grey in Morris Hall, the reluctant rise of our voices as we did what was required and not a thing more.

I did what George asked as he settled himself at the piano seat. My throat was dry and clearing it made it no better. He opened the keyboard and placed his fingers on the keys. For a moment, he was completely still, and then he played a scale.

‘Funny old thing, this piano,’ he said, possibly to himself. He played the scale again, up and down.

The underside of the keyboard lid had a brass plate on it, and, when I stood close enough, I could see that it read, ‘John Broadwood, Pianoforte Manufacturer to HM King George III, Great Pulteney Street, Golden Square, London.’

‘George the Third,’ I said. That made it more than a hundred and fifty years old, perhaps two hundred.

‘Oh, yes.’ George’s hands played a few bars of ‘God Save the Queen’, or King. ‘George the Third. This became mine in a shabby state when I bought a run-down theatre. I had it restored. There was a time when I could make any decision I liked about old pianos and barely notice the fivers flying out of my wallet. Broadwood numbered all his pianos, and this one belonged to Johann Peter Salomon, a German musical impresario who moved to London in the eighteenth century. I don’t know if you know pianos, but have you noticed the size of it?’

‘No.’ I didn’t know pianos, but the longer we talked about them, the less likely I was to have to sing. ‘Isn’t it the usual size?’

‘Five octaves.’ He ran his fingers along the keys from one end to the other. ‘Commercial pianos need at least six. Have done for ages.’ He reached down and tapped the sheet music next to him on the seat. It was headed Piano Sonata No. 31 in A Flat Major, Op. 110. ‘Five octaves can’t quite manage this, even though it was very likely written on a Broadwood. That was a bigger one, though, a bit later on.’

He played again, with his left hand, the notes rumbling as he made his way to the low end of the keyboard and then tapped the dark wood beyond it, hoping for another note. He shrugged.

‘So, no recitals for this lovely creature.’ He stroked his hand along the keyboard lid, as if the piano was a horse. ‘A theatre needs six octaves, no two ways about it, so this one’s stayed at home all these years.’