It did not take long to find what she was looking for. Beyond the glories of the Minster and the generous streets close by, the atmosphere sank still further. The foggy air reeked of lingering smoke and coal dust; her stockings were turning black. She wandered down a side road and found herself in a warren of unkempt terraces, which summer seemed to have left untouched. Passing a dark stone building that looked like a hostel – a dosshouse, mental asylum, or combination of both – she heard moans and muffled shrieks through an open window, and a group of four children ran out and surrounded her, pointing at her suit and hat and pleading for money. One of the girls, muddy-legged, her dress little more than stitched-together rags, was the same height as Adrienne.

‘Where are your mummy and daddy?’ Jelly asked them.

‘Our father’s dead in the mines and Mam’s got a cough and she’s on the drink,’ said the smallest boy, who couldn’t have been more than five. His shins, beneath the end of his short trousers, were covered in purple bruises and red, scabby scrapes, unwashed and untended. He wore no shoes – and Jelly was horrified to see shards of broken glass scattered around the street, as if someone had thrown a bottle out of the nearest window.

‘Where do you live?’

The eldest girl pointed at the house where Jelly had heard the screaming. ‘There since last week, but Mam can’t pay t’rent, so we have to get out before t’collector comes.’

‘But where do you go to school?’ she asked. They laughed in her face. The older boy had just today found some work pushing a barrow. The two girls went out begging. They’d come from Darlington, they told her, walking all the way, looking for some uncle or cousin to help them, but he wasn’t here after all.

Jelly couldn’t bear it. She emptied her whole purse into their upturned hands.

‘Come to my concert in the Minster,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t cost anything.’

‘What? In there?’ They couldn’t believe her. One of them noticed her accent and scowled. ‘Are you German, Miss?’

‘No, Hungarian.’ She brushed it aside. ‘Really, come to the concert, and bring your mam. I’d love it if you did.’

Surprised and a little subdued – whether by the cash or the concert idea – the children mumbled thanks and ran away through the murk towards the dosshouse. Jelly turned to go back, wondering whether music really could do anything for people in such desperate circumstances.