The most my father would permit was a private recital with a professional accompanist (At the Piano: Ivor Newton) in our Blenheim Terrace piano room. Father invited Sammons with his star pupil Thomas Matthews, recently appointed leader of the London Philharmonic Orchestra; the famed viola player William Primrose; the Steiners, together with several émigré composers; a music-loving Harley Street physician, Dr Edward May; and the conductor Sir Henry Wood.

Mother worked on her invitation list for a month. Her prize catches were two Rothschilds and the Chief Rabbi’s wife; the rest of her allocation consisted of Sephardic relatives and wealthy ladies of the Wood. She had an outfit made for the occasion. Caterers were called in. A spare piano was hired, in case our Steinway developed last-minute woodworm. Nothing was left to chance.

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?’