The Minster glowered out of the fog; when she went in to explore, the lighting was dim and the place so gigantic that the tops of the pillars vanished into sepia shadows. She’d been here several times: previously, in the pre-Depression days, it seemed to embrace her, its transepts spreading like affectionate arms. Now it sat still, impassive, while Jelly’s playful heart seemed paralysed. ‘There’s no need to worry,’ the dean assured her. ‘You are undertaking a pilgrimage of compassion, so everything will go well.’ After the interval, he told her, he would make an appeal for the Northern Industries Workrooms and centres for the unemployed in the Cleveland district.

She tried to turn her attention back to her playing. She’d chosen the programme with care; almost an hour and a quarter of music, most of it slow, since rapid pieces full of twirls would be swallowed like plankton in the whale-belly cavern of a cathedral. The result: the slow movements of the Mozart D major, the Beethoven and the Mendelssohn concertos; a complete Handel sonata; and the immense solo Chaconne by Bach, from his Partita No. 2 in D minor.

After scant sleep, she spent the morning rehearsing with the organist, Dr Edward Bairstow; everyone encouraged her, praised her and brought her cups of tea, Dr Bairstow exclaimed in delight at the contrast she was bringing them from what he called the ‘poisonous materialism’ of their times, and Mrs Bairstow came bustling in to press upon her the loan of a jersey, since it was so chilly inside, even though it was the middle of June. Jelly’s mouth felt dry while her hands were damp with sweat. She had begun to doubt that anyone would have the slightest inclination to listen to violin music in any case, free or otherwise. By the time the bells had struck 7 and she was in the vestry preparing, she was wondering why this escapade had ever seemed a good idea.

She fastened her simplest brown and white concert dress and dabbed on just a little lipstick and face powder; she did not want to emphasise the embarrassing gulf of privilege between herself and the audience she sought. She wanted to be as close to them as she’d been to those patients in the hospital. All she could do was play her best and hope it was good enough. If nobody turned up, then nobody turned up and there’d be nothing she could do about it.

And then the doors of the Minster were opened with a great creak that echoed up to the roof; and peering round the vestry door, she could see them arriving, people streaming into the Minster, row upon row; the volume of talk, swirling around the arcs of the building, rose moment by moment. She watched, incredulous. Was the whole of York here?