‘Let well alone,’ said one postcard. ‘Schumann’s orchestral music is dubious at the best of times. Why drag another dull, dreadful piece out of a resting place to which its dedicatee was right to consign it?’

‘My dear Miss d’Arányi, your invaluable work has allowed the triumph of the soul,’ read another, signed by someone claiming a fancy title in an esoteric order. Jelly tossed it after the others.

‘You see? It’s fun, playing ball!’ Adila encouraged her.

The next missive, unsigned and scribbled in block capitals, contained the words: ‘Go back where you came from, Jewish whores.’

‘Adi, they know where we live,’ Jelly pointed out, trying to bite back tears. She didn’t want to reveal the images in her head: bricks, broken glass, cricket bats.

‘They wouldn’t dare,’ said Adila, who must have sensed it all. ‘Everything’s been quieter since Cable Street.’ The battle between the British Union of Fascists, their opponents and the police was nearly a year ago. That didn’t change the hate-mail on their table.

‘I hope you’re right,’ was all Jelly could say.

The second post brought a very different letter: this time, on headed paper from 10 Downing Street, signed by Neville Chamberlain. It declared that the Foreign Office would take up the case with Berlin; and that he hoped all would go well, since he, personally, was looking forward to hearing her play the concerto.

The prime minister was on her side, and he had taken the trouble to reply. Jelly was speechless with amazement.

Adila wouldn’t quite meet her eye. ‘Whether they can achieve anything, even if they do write… ’

‘So… ’ She felt deflated. ‘Do you think he’s fobbing us off?’

‘Perhaps he is, perhaps he isn’t – but it may not make much difference either way.’

‘There has to be hope, if that’s what he says… He’s the prime minister! If I can’t trust him, whom can I trust?’

Tovey. She trusted Tovey. In the study, she picked up the telephone; hearing his voice in his Edinburgh office, she nearly burst into tears again.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I can’t do much, but I can do two things, if they’ll help. First, don’t write to the papers yourself. Let me do it. I think I can, if not exactly stop things, then at least introduce a note of rationality. All right?’

‘Oh, Donald, thank you… ’

‘As for the postponement, look at this another way. Play the piece at the BBC if and when you can. But come and play it in Edinburgh too, with my orchestra at the university. There’s nothing in the world I’d like better than to conduct it for you. Whatever else happens, we’ll give this concerto the resurrection it deserves, together.’

‘You angel! But Donald, all the fuss… ’