As they wait for the rest of the band to take their places, Peter Barker, Inspector of the British Transport Police at Peterborough Railway Station, a man not given to generous impulses towards other men, reaches out and picks up the case in front of him, unzips it and removes the Uluru and turns to Tom, handing it over with a soft ‘Here you go, mate.’

Tom looks at him and takes the ukulele from him, saying quietly, ‘Mate … thanks …’ He holds it up and the people sitting either side of him and Barker turn to look, murmuring their approval. It’s a concert uke, acoustic only, hand-made in Vietnam, none of your Chinese factory production for a single element of it. Tom examines it front and back, its fine sheen, the inlaid flower on the headstock, between the tuning pegs. Mellow it looks; mellow it will sound. It will sing for them. Out of respect, Tom doesn’t strike a single chord, just holds the ukulele up and breathes, ‘It’s beautiful, Peter … beautiful …’ and Barker feels, as emphatically as he’s felt anything, that having someone else understand and share your love for something is a fine feeling, so it is.

Bob taps on his music stand. He doesn’t have a proper baton – he’s brought along a chopstick from home. It’s a standing joke.

‘Okay everyone,’ he says cheerily. ‘Right you are, enough of the chit-chat, let’s launch straight in, shall we? “The Story of My Life”.’ Those who haven’t opened their iPads yet lean forward and swipe their fingers across the screens to find the beginning of the playlist.

As Tom hands back the Uluru, he leans towards Barker and says, ‘You know he topped himself, don’t you? Thirty-eight years old. Silly sod. Imagine, you’re the British Bing Crosby and you go and blow it.’ Barker tucks his new ukulele into position in his arms. ‘Here’s a philosophical question for you,’ Tom murmurs. ‘Would you rather Michael Holliday had lived an ordinary life and never done all those songs or is it better he had all that success, gave everyone all that pleasure, and topped himself at thirty-eight, what do you reckon?’

It’s a daft question, Barker thinks. The British public would no doubt opt for having the songs but if you were Michael Holliday’s mum or wife or girlfriend you’d plump for the other answer. Luckily, he’s not obliged to respond, as Bob taps his music stand again and raises his arms in the air, the chopstick at an admonitory angle.

‘Here we go,’ Bob says, ‘let’s give it a bit of welly. I want everyone doing the whistling bit loud as Peter.’