One day, the other men are ribbing him about his upcoming wedding. It’s par for the course, and Philip is used to it by now. They’re all drunk anyway.

‘I don’t know why you’re not marrying Margaret,’ one of members offers, gesticulating lewdly with his glass. ‘She’s much better looking than your girl.’ He snorts. ‘I wouldn’t mind giving her one.’

Philip is seized by a cold fury. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew them,’ he snarls back, sickened at the idea that this drunken oaf should dare pass judgement on Elizabeth. ‘Margaret may be pretty but Elizabeth is sweet and she’s kind.’

Spats like that are rare, though. Usually they just laugh in a way Philip can’t remember laughing since he was a boy. They derive a lot of amusement from bets, just stupid things that distract them all from the grim reality of life outside the club.

‘Baron, we’ve got a bet for you,’ Philip and his cousin David call across the table one day.

Baron Nahum eyes them suspiciously. ‘What is it?’

‘Well, you’re the great photographer. We bet you that you won’t be able to photograph the cuckoo coming out of that clock there at precisely three o’clock.’

Baron looks from them to the clock as if trying to work out the catch. ‘How much?’

‘Five quid.’

‘Done.’

With two minutes to go, Baron is poised with his camera focused on the cuckoo clock. Philip and David reach surreptitiously into their pockets and move towards the mantelpiece.

‘Five … four … three … two …’ The other members are counting down and waiting for the telltale whirring and clicking that presages the cuckoo’s appearance.

‘One!’ they shout, and Philip and David throw the smoke bombs they have brought with them into the fireplace. They explode with a terrific bang just as the cuckoo bursts out of the clock and into a cloud of soot from the chimney which covers the entire company head to toe in soot.

‘You arses, you’ve ruined my camera!’ Baron Nahum bellows but he can hardly be heard above the raucous laughter of the other members, the shrieks from panicked customers downstairs and the pounding of feet up the stairway. The next thing they know, two policemen have burst into the room and are staring at the circle of well-dressed men with sooty faces.

‘What’s going on here then?’

‘Ahh, officers …’ Philip moves forward, belatedly aware of how ridiculous he must look. ‘What can we do for you?’

‘You can explain what caused that ruddy great explosion for a start … sir,’ the policeman adds after a nudge from his companion.

Evidently realising how quickly the story could get out of control, Baron Nahum pushes Philip out of the way and sets about sweet-talking the policeman. Just a friendly joke that got out of control. No harm done. Of course they’ll make good any damages. Much appreciated if the officers didn’t take matters any further. Sure they wouldn’t want to cause any embarrassment. And so on.