‘There was an African princess called Jelly? That’s a trifle unlikely, isn’t it?’ Sep teased her, those 50-carat blue eyes sparkling into her teenaged face.

‘I’ve heard all the jokes before, you know. Jelly, trifle, ice cream, getting my just desserts. It is very tedious.’

‘Then I shall just have to be more original, shan’t I? Tell me more about this African princess.’

‘I think it was originally spelled J-E-L-I, but our father wanted to make it look English. I don’t think he had the first idea what it meant. And it’s “Yelly”, not “Gelly”. Though I must say I am not in the habit of yelling very much.’ She saw the corners of Sep’s eyes crinkle and his teeth glimmer as she battled with the Hungarian twists of her vocal cords. They seemed to be stronger than she was.

‘You could change it, you know. You could choose any name you like.’

‘But I do like it! I have a name nobody else in this country has ever had. Why would I want one that belonged to someone else first? It would be – how do you say in English? Second-hand!’

Sep laughed, a deep, raucous, Australian laugh, his head on one side; he evidently thought she was a poppet, as everyone seemed to. Jelly was furious that she wasn’t even two years older, which could have made all the difference. He was nearly 30 and awfully venerable.

‘Tell me about yourself, then,’ he said. ‘Start with your name and tell me something I can’t guess about what you think and feel.’

Jelly pondered. ‘My name is Jelly von Arányi. And… ’

‘Go on,’ he prompted. ‘“And I know that… ”?’

‘My name is Jelly von Arányi and I know that nobody has ever had my name before.’ She was emboldened. ‘Nobody else has ever had my name. Nobody else has ever lived my life.’

‘And live it you do and you shall!’ he laughed. ‘I can see that in the way you set your jaw.’

‘That’s probably from the violin… ’

‘Of course, you play the violin, don’t you?’ He stopped laughing. ‘The Tove’s been yelling Jelly’s praises. Come on, let’s see what you can do. What shall we play?’

‘Brahms.’

‘Brahms? You play Brahms? That’s no music for little girls.’

Jelly fumed. ‘Try me.’

‘All right, then.’ He suggested the second sonata – the most concentrated and supposedly straightforward of Brahms’s three. Jelly refused. She plumped for the third, in D minor, the last, loudest and most violent. Best of all, it had a pig of a piano part. Jelly flung herself into the melodies and gave Sep, at the keyboard, a run she hoped he would never forget.