She felt a tug of loneliness; George, Willy and their children had moved away to Dublin. ‘Without you,’ she said to an imagined George, ‘none of this would be happening. Why did you have to introduce us to Erik?’ George used to participate enthusiastically in the esoteric practices of salons like Eva Fowler’s, those regular gatherings at which the literary met the musical, the artists met the patrons, the curious met those who intrigued them, and the glass game and table-tapping were as likely pastimes as listening to a poetry recitation or a performance by Jelly, Adila and their friends. Jelly remembered George explaining the ‘automatic writing’ from ‘messengers’ that she insisted she’d learned to channel in order to fuel her husband’s creativity. No wonder she and Erik became friends when he arrived in London as envoy. Jelly could still hear George’s voice across party chatter – ‘Sai! Adi! Come and meet this wonderful man… ’ Moments later Erik’s bright gaze was locked with Adila’s, and Jelly, to whom most men gravitated, turned away to find another drink, sensing her own superfluity. Perhaps because George was her friend, Erik’s implantation in their life seemed her own fault.

A blackbird was singing on the window ledge. Jelly slid open the casement and, making birdish noises, reached out a finger. The creature stared at her, head tilted, before springing away into the air. Jelly decided to escape the house by walking Caesar in Battersea Park, where she could look at a new sonata. She enjoyed learning music by reading the score in the sunlight, under the trees. Once a piece was in her head, it was easier to transfer it later to the violin.

She was fastening Caesar’s lead when the telephone rang. Anna answered it in the study. ‘Jelly, come quick – it’s Tom Spring Rice, he’s in Dublin.’

Jelly experienced a brief rip in the fabric of time, along with an immediate awareness that something was wrong. She flew up the stairs; Anna tactfully left her to talk alone.

‘Tom? Darling! How are you? What are you doing phoning all the way from Ireland? When can we see you?’

‘Ah, Jelly, you never change. Still the warmest welcome in all of England.’ Tom’s voice sounded different – not that she had spoken to him for several weeks, but she knew his tone almost as well as she had once known Sep Kelly’s.