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at least not these cats’ concerts that they organize in Falmouth. But this was extraordinary. Made my hair stand up.’
    â€˜What was his name?’ I asked.
    â€˜Oh, can’t remember that, my dear girl. Never can. Hemway or some such. But his story is still more extraordinary. Don’t know whether ’tis generally known, but Admiral Cawthorne told me, and he knows everything. It seems this feller was a slave taken as a boy by Portuguese traders, sold in Brazil and then brought back to Lisbon as a sort of slave servant – they are fashionable in Portugal among the aristocracy, and the blacker the better! Well, this slave-owner found his boy so highly musical that in a couple of years he was playing in the orchestra at the Lisbon opera! Is that that damned dog I hear?’
    â€˜You know it’s not,’ said my mother impatiently. ‘ Parish is in his kennel as you instructed. So?’
    â€˜So? …’ Uncle Davey blinked. ‘Oh, you mean about this slave feller. Well about this time, according to Cawthorne, the Indefatigable , under Edward Pellew – captain as he then was – ran aground when chasing an enemy and had to put in to Lisbon for repairs. He was there far too long for his own satisfaction, and one night he went to the Lisbon opera and spotted the black man, leading the violins by then; so a couple of weeks later, when he was ready to sail, he had this black man impressed as he came out of the opera and taken aboard the Indefatigable , and sailed away with him!’
    â€˜From one slavery to a worse,’ said Mary.
    â€˜Well, yes, in a way I suppose so. They kept him aboard for years – would not let him go ashore when they were in port or he would have run for it. It wasn’t until Pellew was promoted years later to take over a ship of the line and his crew was disbanded that they gave Hemway, or whatever his name is, his freedom and set him ashore in Falmouth.’
    â€˜Falmouth?’
    â€˜Yes. He has lived in Cornwall ever since.’
    â€˜I’ve heard of him,’ said Mary. ‘I haven’t ever seen him but his name is sometimes in the paper. By the way, his name is Emidy, not Hemway.’
    â€˜Well, if he gives a concert round here we must certainly go to see him,’ said Uncle Davey. ‘You know I was never a great friend of the sonatas, but he almost cured me of my distaste for ’em. You could even hear the tunes .’
    This was in the May before he died. A year later, the following June I heard about a concert – I think it was first from Mary – which was to be held at the Town Hall, Falmouth on Thursday week. An orchestra was coming from Bath, and would be led by the well-known violinist, Joseph Emidy, who would play various solo pieces and a concerto of his own composition.
    Desmond was away and not expected back for at least a month, Mary expressed herself uninterested – she was not fond of musical concerts – but to my great joy and relief my mother said, yes, she would go and take Tamsin and me with her.
    During the last few years I had heard little music – except what my mother and I had sometimes made ourselves singing duets in our sitting room. I had never heard a professional orchestra, nor really an orchestra of any sort, save the military and naval bands that played when the Navy was in port. Last year I had persuaded Uncle Davey to have the harp moved to our wing of the house, and this had given me the greatest pleasure, except when Tamsin complained of the noise. (And one could always defy one’s sister.)
    But a professional orchestra. Not a group of part-gifted amateurs whose efforts Uncle Davey had dubbed ‘cats’ concerts’. And Joseph Emidy, a performer who had even impressed the Admiral. I would count the days.
    On the Thursday, a week before the concert, my mother, after reading the weekly paper at breakfast, suddenly announced that she had changed her