On the morning of the concert Jackie telephoned Mum and told her that she and Danny had received a death threat, but not to worry because there would be special services people everywhere. ‘There’s even a policeman outside our flat right now, Mum. And he’s a cellist as well. I found this out when I called him in for a coffee. I made him try the Davidoff!’ I drove Mum and Dad from Gerrards Cross while Kiffer drove Hil, who insisted upon making the journey even though she might give birth at any moment. Collecting our tickets from the artists’ entrance, we found our way to the Green Room. Danny didn’t seem at all concerned. He told us there were marksmen all over the hall. We were sitting quite high up and to the right of the stage, looking down on the platform. Mum was fidgeting nervously; Dad was trying to reassure her; I was scanning the auditorium, looking for the assassins. Jackie looked positively defiant as she swept on to the stage with her characteristic bounce, holding the cello high up in front of her. The vision stays with me. There she was in her light blue lace gown, blonde hair flying around her shoulders. Such poise, such confidence. Not a single care about the death threat. We stood for both the British and Czech National Anthems. As the last chords faded away, Jackie appeared to compose herself more seriously than usual. A look and a nod to Danny, and the concerto began. First the clarinets presented their wonderfully lyrical melody, soon joined by the bassoons, before the solo horn began sounding its haunting theme of romantic longing. Jackie caught these themes and began leading the music passionately forward and deeper. From the moment she started playing, I felt absorbed in a way that I had never experienced before. It may have been because of the death threat or her determination to fight for the cause. For the first time ever, her music struck home. The Dvořák is a beautiful concerto. To me, even more elegant than the Elgar or the Schumann. I felt so proud of her, so set apart from the rest of the audience. There was my sister, being brave and brilliant. But I kept dragging myself back to reality, scanning the boxes for possible snipers. I wasn’t going to allow anything to happen to her. Suddenly, there was a loud crack. I jumped up, expecting Jackie to fall to the floor. At first, she stood, and the audience gasped as Daniel pulled the orchestra to a sudden, awkward halt. Jackie began speaking. It was all right. A string had snapped and she needed to replace it. She left the platform. The relief was sudden and almost painful. But she seemed to take ages. Danny, concerned, went to find her. While waiting, Mum and Dad began talking about the pressures of playing. They said Jackie always played better when she wasn’t feeling well. In fact, one of the best concerts she ever gave was after she’d had her wisdom teeth out. She had gone to the dentist one morning to have all four out in one go under local anaesthetic, everyone forgetting that she was to play in the Royal Festival Hall that evening. She played exquisitely. Eventually, Jackie and Danny reappeared on the platform. The audience burst into applause. During the interval, Jackie told us what had happened. She had gone to her dressing room only to discover that she hadn’t any spare strings with her, so she had to go to the orchestral Green Room and check every single cello case. Finally, she found the string she needed in the very last case. The memory of Jackie’s playing and how I felt that afternoon has never left me. << less