It was understandable that my swift rise had put my fellow performers’ noses out of joint – that and my colour – but I couldn’t do anything about either of them. The better I’d done, the more modest I’d become, but I’d grown tired of trying to make myself smaller, knowing that however humble I was the dancers and the chorus and the set dressers still wouldn’t accept me. I wouldn’t get too many chances in this life. When they came along, I had to grab them with both hands. And no one could deny how hard I’d worked for it. The crowds we drew each night proved that I deserved my headline spot and their fascination with my act knew no limits. Hopefully in time they’d realise backstage that we all benefited when Crillick’s was successful, whatever our place on the bill.

I paused before the giant poster that announced THE GREAT AMAZONIA, the biggest one of all. A smaller version was sold in the interval. My name – her name – was picked out in swirly black letters. Dense type explained that I was an exotic plucked from the jungle, a cut-down version of the spiel that the compère gave out before I went onstage. It said that the young Queen herself had come to see me. That was cobblers, of course, but Crillick said it wasn’t the show but the tale that you told, and he was right.

I felt a tickle at the back of my neck that alerted me to the fact I had company. I’d been too lost in looking at the poster to hear the footsteps. I turned, expecting Barky, but the lean familiar figure of the stage manager wasn’t there. Instead, there stood a broad, upright man in a black hat.

‘Buwa, Amazonia, kahunyaina?’ he said.

It was the African.

He was around the same height as me, and his skin was like ebony. His coat was woollen, open just enough so a fine, amber silk cravat poked through. The Black drummers in the regiments, they outdid themselves in their turbans and braided tunics. But this man was no show pony. He looked like a merchant – and a prosperous one at that.

‘Buwa, kahunyaina?’ he said again. Was this the language of my forefathers?

‘Bawo ni ore mi?’

I shook my head and he tried again.

‘Sisi wami kunjani?’

‘I don’t understand.’

He was affronted. I couldn’t tell from what he’d said but it was there in his eyes and in his tone.

‘You’re English. Aren’t you?’

Strange. I’d never heard someone say it like it was an insult. Something I should be ashamed of. The knot of worry from before the performance rose again, twisting my stomach.

‘I should have guessed when I saw you perform,’ he said. And then a little bit under his breath, but loud enough so I would hear, ‘gaffed.’