‘Would you like some, William?’ Mrs Mussey asks, holding her hair back in a ponytail in one hand, her other poised with a spoon over the bowl. To William’s surprise it contains rice – not something he’s ever had for breakfast.

‘Yes, please. What is it?’

‘Kedgeree,’ says Edward, plunging his own fork into the bowl, receiving a rap on the knuckle from Mrs Mussey’s spoon. ‘Have you not had it before? I can’t imagine life without kedgeree.’

‘Doesn’t say much for your imagination, Edward,’ says Imogen, buttering her toast. Martin laughs, and Isobel, William notices, is smiling.

‘It’s haddock, rice and boiled eggs, William,’ Mrs Mussey says, putting a helping onto his plate.

‘Thanks – my mum doesn’t like fish,’ he says, hoping to imply they would otherwise have eaten it regularly, along with cornflakes and sliced white toast with Robertson’s marmalade.

‘Richard,’ says Mrs Mussey as she gets up from the table, skimming her hand over his hair, ‘can you try and get on stage by eight at the latest tonight? We’ve got about ten people coming, including Mrs Wickers who slept through it all last year. And your grandfather will be driving home afterwards, so it’s not fair to keep him too late.’

William thought how wonderful it would be if his mother, Uncle Robert and Howard could be in the audience to see how he was part of this cultured family.

Richard is intent on scraping the serving bowl of the last of the kedgeree. Mrs Mussey steps back towards the table.

‘Did you hear me, Richard? Answer when I speak to you.’

‘Yep, that’s fine,’ Richard answers. William hopes they are on stage by eight, because if not, he knows he’ll feel anxious.

After breakfast, the young people migrate to the sitting room around the polished oval table, swept clean of the National Geographic, Punch and New Statesman. Richard summarises for William’s benefit that they write the play before elevenses, for which Flo is, as they speak, baking biscuits. After elevenses and before lunch they allocate roles and do a run-through. After lunch they divide into two teams – one for costume and one for set. After tea break it’s dress rehearsal. William calculates they will have said their lines only twice before the performance.

‘Do we keep our scripts in case we forget our lines, or will there be a prompt?’

Everyone laughs.

‘No. No prompts. No script, really,’ Martin says, ‘you remember or you make it up. It’s all part of the fun!’

‘And at least one of the boys usually shows off their arse or todger at some point,’ Isobel says.

He looks at Martin – he’s never mentioned this, William is sure of it. ‘OK.’ He tries to look relaxed.