‘Gypsy girls aren’t allowed to play the violin,’ Jelly said, conversational, keeping her calm. She registered that they were driving uphill. ‘Where are we going?’

‘The Savoy.’ He gave her a wink. ‘Nah, Miss – closest hospital there is. Putney. There in no time.’

*

They unloaded the barely conscious Anna on the stretcher; Jelly followed, her nostrils assaulted by a stench of disinfectant and blocked drains. Blinking, she took in the surrounding anxious muddle, the officious nurses, the pallid relatives of patients sitting on wooden benches in the lobby: hollow-cheeked faces, blank eyes. She had no doubt now that what she was seeing was hunger. This was the look of people who would give their children what food there was, but go hungry themselves. It seemed impossible that they could afford their treatment; the papers were full of the way costs had been rising of late. Thinking of her own life, she wanted to hide somewhere for the shame of her shelteredness. How alien her world would seem to these people; yet, were it not for her music, she might have been one of them. The sea of greyness in front of her was punctuated only by the crimson flowering of bloodstains on Anna’s clothes, quickly concealed with a sheet.

‘Give us a tune, love?’ One of the men caught her eye and winked. She smiled back.

‘I would, but… ’ She gestured at the ailing Anna on the stretcher.

‘Never mind,’ he rasped – he had the voice of a heavy smoker. ‘Probably only play for rich people anyway, don’t you?’

Jelly was trying to keep hold of Anna’s hand. ‘Miss, we have to take her in to see the doctor… ’ an apologetic nurse intervened.

‘Jelly.’ Anna opened her eyes with effort. ‘Don’t worry. Please go home. If you come back tomorrow, they’ll have cured me.’

‘Please take good care of her,’ Jelly said to the nurse. ‘And please send the bills to me. My Anna is “more precious than rubies”.’

*

Back at home, Jelly telephoned the salon to rearrange her fitting. Only hours ago, it had been imperative not to be late for Queen Mary’s preferred designer. Images galloped through her mind like speeded-up film – Anna, the ambulance man, the smoker’s accusation – along with an imagined portrait of Tom, confined to a hospital bed, emaciated and fading, telling her to be true to her vocation. She longed to take a jug from Adila’s kitchen and mix in it a spiritual punch: one part Hungarian energy, two parts empathy, five parts music. Then she’d pour out the magic potion for them all.