Dovidl played the Kreutzer Sonata in the first half, followed by a nonchalant selection of Vieuxtemps, Vivaldi and Brahms. There was a Dvořák ‘Humoresque’ and something by Tchaikovsky for encores. No one left the room unmoved, or unfed. Sir Henry growled something about a future Prom, and Dr Steiner wept gleaming tears of joy. Johnny Isaacs’s mother sulked in a corner. My mother was in raptures. ‘She shlepped more naches tonight from this refugee boy than the poor woman will ever get from her own shlemiel of a son,’ I heard Mrs Isaacs complain to the Chief Rabbi’s wife.

Dovidl, overhearing the comment, asked my father if he could say a few words. A teaspoon was tapped on a cup and he remounted the make-do stage to declare his gratitude to my parents and to his rehearsal pianist – me. He knew, without my saying, the pain of my rejection. He also knew, or sensed, how massively his presence had increased my self-worth. I felt redeemed by his friendship from a cocoon of caterpillar misery.

The only dissentient cough came from my aunt Mabel, a dumpy EastEnder with a gorblimey accent who was married to Mother’s dentist brother, Kenneth. She and I were natural allies against Medola hauteur, outcasts who were usually seated together below the salt.

‘I don’t think much of your fiddle-chum, Martin,’ said Mabel.

‘What do you mean, Auntie? He’s brilliant.’

‘A phoney, if you ask me. I tried talking to him in Yiddish, the mother tongue, and he insisted on speaking English. Never trust a man who’s ashamed of his origins, my boy. Here, let’s split another choccy mouse between us before your mum catches us.’

Mother, as if by osmosis, caught us brown-handed. ‘Mabel, I do wish you would stop forcing sweets on the boy,’ she snapped. ‘A dentist’s wife ought to know better. Martin, please remember the desserts have to go round all of our guests. Is that a stain on your tie?’

‘She wasn’t always such a sourpuss,’ explained my aunt, as Mother scudded away on clouds of disapproval. ‘Before the last war,’ she confided, ‘Violet was quite the life and soul of the soirée , singing silly ballads and larking the night away. She knew all the latest dances and taught them to the young men. But then Edwin got killed and she thought she’d never get off the shelf, until they found your poor ruddy father.’

‘Who was Edwin?’

‘Her first fiancé, a Montagu. He went exploring the Hindu Kush and returned to write a rather daring book on puberty and polygamy before getting himself killed in the first wave on the Somme. Violet wore black for two years, never left the house, must have had one of those whadyamacallits, nervous breakdowns. By the time the boys came home, those that did, she was pushing thirty and no poster-girl. I always thought yer dad was a bit of a hero, taking her on, but he never complains, does he? A good bloke, Morty Simmonds, I always say. I knew his family down Mile End. Didn’t have two spare beans for a Sabbath cholent.’