Joseph waved a hand. ‘Of course, they’re entirely at liberty to do so. This isn’t a prison camp!’ He gave a grim laugh. ‘But I’d prefer them to stay. And that’s where you come in, Maguire.’ He pointed his cigar at the lad. ‘Big responsibility. “Heavy is the head that wears a crown” and all that. Think you’re up for the challenge?’

Joseph sat back and waited. Sometimes silence was your best weapon. Most people couldn’t stand it; they’d say anything, simply to fill it.

‘I think I can do that, Sir.’

‘Keep them entertained, happy, that kind of thing.’

Maguire pursed his lips. He looked as though he was already thinking. Good. Joseph was trying not to think badly of the men from the bank who hadn’t seen fit to enlist. If he’d been their age, hell or high water wouldn’t have stopped him. But he supposed he should be grateful. What would he have done if every bank clerk had resigned?

Maguire’s gaze was focused over Joseph’s head now, at the painting on the wall behind his desk.

‘Canaletto,’ Joseph said, turning in his seat to admire it himself. It was a particular favourite of his. ‘Venice,’ he said. ‘From St Mark’s basin, looking towards the Doge’s Palace. Oil, obviously.’

When he turned back, Maguire was nodding, thoughtfully.

‘Do you like art, Maguire?’

‘Art, Sir?’

‘Paintings? Pictures, like this one?’

Maguire gave a shrug. ‘I suppose it cheers up a plain wall, Sir.’

Joseph laughed. ‘That’s certainly one way of looking at it!’ He’d been about to say something pompous, about ‘art being the perfect distraction from the miseries of life’ but actually, he preferred Maguire’s line.

‘Excellent. Well, I shall leave staff morale in your capable hands.’

He turned back to the report he’d been ploughing through. Maguire hesitated before understanding he’d been dismissed.

Joseph raised his eyes and watched him leave. Poor posture: rounded shoulders, hunched back. He was padding across the carpet as though he thought a mine might go off.

Joseph had to fight the urge to yell, ‘Shoulders back, stand up straight!’ At the door, Maguire turned. ‘Wellingtons!’ he said.

Joseph raised his eyebrows.

‘Boots might encourage the staff to stroll around the grounds? Take in the air?’

‘Yes! That’s exactly the kind of thing. We do have a boot room; there will be some in there. But speak to Dakin – bald chap, my butler. He’ll tell you how to order more. There’s a shortage of rubber, of course, so there are no guarantees but see what you can do.’

‘Thank you, Sir. That’s super.’

Joseph tried not to smile. ‘Super,’ he repeated. He took a drag on his cigar and turned back to the papers on his desk. ‘Thank you, Maguire,’ he murmured. ‘Dismissed.’