I was silent. I did. And I remembered Roger instantly throwing on his clothes and running down.

“Tried to get Hugo to come."

I worked on silently.

"He never did like the water."

I didn't say anything. It had been a huge bone of contention, Hugo's lack of enthusiasm for anything aquatic. His fear, even, of the sea, whilst Roger practically lived in it. And I knew Roger had worked day and night during and after the spillage, whereas Hugo had . . . well, he'd manned the phones. Somebody had to. It was bedlam here. Coastguards, police, journalists, camera crews, and since Hugo hadn't gone down that night, I had, with Mum, Babs, Iris and all the locals. Even Belinda had been on the beach. And he'd looked after Peter. Somebody had to. Pointless both of us staying behind. And I was good in the water, and didn't mind it at night, either.

I remembered being in a boat with Roger and Babs, just one light on the prow. How he'd reached right in and brought up a baby seal in his bare hands, covered in oil. I remembered how he'd actually cried. Sworn a lot, too, but cried, nonetheless, as we'd desperately tried to clear its airways, Babs crouched in the bottom, breathing into its nostrils as she tried to resuscitate it. Oh, they'd had their adult moments, those two. But Hugo had been good with the TV people, assuring them of no risk to the filtration plant, whereas Roger, tall and commanding and covered in tar and oil coming up from the beach, had just roared at them. Told them all to bog off. As I'm sure Hugo was being good now, I thought. Polite. Diplomatic. Soothing.

Roger's ear was still cocked and when he heard the front door shut, he gave a loud shout. "Hugo?"

He shot me a defiant look. I lowered my brush resignedly. Hugo's head appeared around the door.

"Well?" Roger demanded.

"I've invited him to come to a board meeting. Let him see for himself."

"What!"

"It was Tommy's idea," he said, slightly sheepishly. We exchanged a glance as Roger fumed. Hugo shut the door.

Roger affected a high, silly voice. "It was Tommy's idea," he mimicked. "Grrr .. got no bite, that boy."

He drummed his fingers furiously on the arm of the chair as I painted on. But after a moment he got to his feet. "Right — that's it," he declared. "I've had enough."

And out he marched.

Chapter 11