The long winter had ended. Green Park was kindled with crocuses, and Phyllis had bought a posy of snowdrops to give to her teacher. Imo Sage was a Pisces, and Phyllis remembered her birthday whenever she saw the first snowdrops. The Friday commuters, anxious to be home after their week’s labour, were pushing and shoving their way into the mouth of the Underground in an un-English way. As she jostled through them, protecting her fragile bouquet, a low spring sun shone on her face.

Imo had loved her flowers, and Phyllis, who had been preparing Bellini’s ‘Qui La Voce’, had given a nervy rendering. But instead of running through it again, Miss Sage had risen from the stool, leaving Phyllis standing in the bow of the piano while she went to the kitchen. She returned a moment later with tea and biscuits.

“I’m a little weary today, dear. Let’s have a natter.” She beckoned her to the chair by the fire. “That was charming, and well supported. That rendering would have filled the Opera House.”

“Oh,” said Phyllis bashfully. “I’ve been working on it at home. It seems to make it easier in Italian.”

“It is, dear. The open vowels, you see. Does your roommate help you?”

“No,” said Phyllis, a tad too quickly.

“Doesn’t she like to listen to you sing?”

“I practise when she’s out, which is often. She works evenings, you see,” she added lamely.

“So, it is still our little secret: I’m the only one who has the pleasure of hearing your lovely voice?”

“Yes,” confessed Phyllis with a downward turn of her lips.

“I see.”

There was a pause while Miss Sage poured them tea, followed by a crunch, as Phyllis bit into a wafer-thin biscuit, flavoured with lime peel and tart. Obviously homemade. Phyllis had never thought to make anything for Imo; she wasn’t a very capable cook. Phyllis put a hand to her mouth and Miss Sage beamed a smile across at her.

“Good, aren’t they? Made with love, like your voice.”

Phyllis flushed and her pale neck reddened, “Oh, Imo.”

“I’m not flattering you undeservedly, dear. I tell you for selfish reasons. There’s nothing like a star pupil to brighten an old lady’s day—if that old lady is a teacher, which this one is. It is a catastrophe for a teacher to die without a distinguished pupil to carry on the line.” Phyllis, sensing what was coming, stopped drinking her tea and began to speak. But Imo raised a pale hand. “I know I have other pupils. Damien is a virtuoso, and Phoebe is—will be—superb, but they only come to me for toning up. You, on the other hand—you were placed on my doorstep. lmo has been your only teacher. You are blessed with perfect pitch.” The old teacher looked Phyllis squarely in the eye. “I’ve said it before and I will say it again: your career will not end early, because when you don’t want to sing anymore, you can pass on what I’ve taught you and what you’ve learned yourself. Perhaps some little primrose will come and sit on your step and give you the joy you’ve given me.” She stopped and regarded her star pupil with a bright eye. “Now, give me your word that you will perform publicly. If you do not let others appreciate your gift, I will not have done my job. And that will slow me down from wherever it is I’m going next.”