“When we sing—keeping in mind that we are the only creatures that have this in common with birds—we are rejoicing, as they are, at one with our state of being. Every movement we make—stretching, yawning, sneezing—are devices used by the breath to spread its influence throughout the body. When we sing, especially if we are blessed with a developed voice, we not only magnetise our own body, but we can vitalise the minds and bodies of all who listen.

“This is why a great singer is in such demand. Their love and sympathy go out to others via their voice. People feel it—it is healing for them. No doubt they may also feel something from the phonograph or the wireless, but it is not nearly the same as being in the presence of a great vocal personality. The boundaries of a person’s influence are as wide as the reaching point of their voice, and an audience senses this, if only at a subconscious level.” Without pausing, Miss Sage stood up and kindly but firmly took hold of Phyllis’s arm, and led her to the piano, a baby grand, which sat impressively near the front window.

Phyllis, mesmerised by the teacher’s presence, allowed herself to be placed alongside Miss Sage as she sat on the stool and rifled through her song sheets, all the while tapping notes with her right hand to find her new pupil’s range.

“So you are a coloratura,” she said, delighted, and suddenly Phyllis had sung clear through ‘Nel Cor Piu Mi Sento’ with a finely decorated repeat section, and Miss Sage was saying, “How good you are, my dear, and I do believe you are blessed with perfect pitch. Whoever taught you?”

To which Phyllis replied, “I’m afraid you did.”

*

People poured out of the train at Mansion House, but others poured back in. Phyllis was feeling the urge for a cigarette. It hadn’t been so bad this morning—the calm state she had woken in had helped—but all this thinking about her friend was making her edgy, and she couldn’t stop the flow of memories.

One of the promises she had made to Miss Sage was to try to stop smoking, and even the suggestion frightened her. Something else had frightened her even more—for the teacher had exercised a sweet touch of emotional blackmail by telling Phyllis that, until a pupil performed in public, she didn’t feel she’d earned her fee (no matter that she would never take a penny from Phyllis—“You know what I mean,” she had said). Phyllis always arrived with something—flowers, tea, liver for Winston—yet Miss Sage bore witness to something Miss Vincent had told her: that the best teachers are never the expensive ones; that a great teacher invariably has a bigger need to pass on what they know than the student does to receive it.

In the crowded Underground, the electric overspill from one of London’s immigrant music-manic populations was fraying her nerves. Why didn’t they make Walkmans illegal if they weren’t silent? To Phyllis, sound was just as polluting as smoke. She retreated back into her daydream. And to her mind came the day of Miss Sage’s birthday.