I gave him the briefest of résumés – how Alexandra had approached me, my meeting with Ingrid, the fact that Alexandra’s father was Niall Connor.

‘Niall Connor the journalist?’ Ben asked.

My son’s long had an interest in typography. I think, in an ideal world, that’s where he’d like his career to develop. He once confided in me a long-held dream of one day inventing a definitive font, one to rival Helvetica or Times New Roman. As a result of this ambition, he has always collected newspapers – online, I’m glad to say, so I don’t have a hoarding problem in the immediate family. He’s not just interested in the fonts, though, he devours the content too. From his teenage years, Ben’s always preferred reading newspapers and magazines to novels. So, I wasn’t surprised that he knew about Niall Connor.

‘Makes sense that those two would have got together.’

‘Ingrid Richards and Niall Connor?’

‘Yes. Birds of a feather. Both recklessly brave, just waiting for the next war to rush out to. Both highly successful. And competitive, I bet.’

He spoke with admiration. I wondered if there was an element of identification. I read that a lot of such characters were depressive, finding, rather in the manner of Graham Greene, that the adrenaline of physical danger allayed their mental anguish.

Anyway, because it was rarely that I could impress my children, I said, ‘I actually had lunch with Niall Connor yesterday.’

‘Did you?’ Yes, Ben was impressed. ‘Why?’

‘He wanted to know what I’d thought of Ingrid Richards when I met her.’

‘And what did you think, Ma?’

‘I thought she was remarkable.’

‘Hm.’

There was another silence. We turned off the A27 towards Worthing.

Then one of the elephants in the Yeti revealed itself. The big one.

‘I’m not in a good place, Ma,’ said Ben.

When he was in the Morris Tipper and about to leave from Mary Griffin’s place, I couldn’t stop myself from saying, ‘Drive carefully.’

‘Why?’ he asked with sudden aggression. ‘Do you think I’m about to drive this thing into a tree at high speed?’

‘No, I just—’

‘I’d never do that,’ he said. Which reassured me.

‘Not to Dodge’s van,’ he added. Which reassured me less. As with Oliver, there was a savage wit that emerged when Ben was depressed.

There was nothing I could do except let him go. What he’d said was true. When he was at his lowest, his respect for Dodge’s van was considerably higher than his respect for himself. But, at that moment, there was no one I would rather he’d been going to see than Dodge.

The two of them both had their problems, but got on surprisingly well. I doubted that they ever talked about mental health, but they sensed each other’s vulnerability. And they cooperated well on physical tasks. At one point they had floated the idea of Ben using his artistic skills to paint some of Dodge’s furniture. It hadn’t happened, but it was something that might develop in the future. And something that I think they’d both find therapeutic.