It doesn’t feel right, does it? Not to know these things myself. Not to have lived and breathed every second of it. Thoughts like these could drive Hélène to madness, but all it took was for Sybil to reach up and play with her hair, and all those worries faded away. Love did not fade. Love had crossed vaster distances than these before. And it isn’t for ever, Sybil. I’m going to find a way that it doesn’t have to be for ever. But what would Maynard Charles say if he knew the truth? A child born out of wedlock . . . and of mixed heritage at that? Maynard Charles might countenance black musicians in his orchestra, but if he knew one of them had fathered the secret child of his star dancer? Well, the Buckingham is only the Buckingham because of what people think of it. He’d protect that reputation at any cost, even if it meant getting rid of me – and then where would we be? If I couldn’t send money back here every month, what would become of us all?

Baked apples and cinnamon were already being served by the time the front door opened and in bouldered the Archers’ youngest son, Joseph. Not yet twenty years old, Joseph was small and slender, with the same tight curls of hair as his mother. As he crashed through the door, he was singing to himself, a song Hélène did not know.

‘Hélène!’

He was barrelling over to plant a kiss on Hélène’s cheek when Noelle slapped his hand away. ‘Wash first, young man! Hélène, you don’t know where he’s been . . . but I do. You been hanging round those clubs again, boy?’

‘Ma, I’m telling you, there’s work there.’

‘Work!’ Noelle muttered darkly, as Joseph strode off to wash the grime from his hands. ‘That boy’s been laid off more times than I’ve had hot dinners.’

Joseph reappeared, dragging a chair behind him to join them at the table. Soon his plate was being piled high with rice and peas, salted fish, little potatoes rolled in butter and a single pickled egg. ‘They got me relaying a floor.’

‘You don’t know how to lay a floor.’

Joseph shrugged, his mouth already full. ‘I know how to do what I’m told.’

Hélène grinned. ‘Where are you working, Joseph?’

‘They call it –’ his eyes sparkled – ‘the Midnight Rooms.’

Hélène’s eyes darted up.

‘Our Joseph finds himself a citizen of Soho,’ Maurice chipped in, with more than a smirk. ‘Been out dancing, have you, boy?’

‘I got a good pair of dancing feet.’

‘And they let you dance in there, do they?’