It was Capability’s ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ that woke Michael, who pushed his way out from among the cushions and said, ‘Santa. Santa’s back.’ One of his cheeks was dimpled by the carpet pile and the hair on that side of his head was matted.

Capability had a pillow under his red coat, and baggy red pants attached to a hoop that was held up by suspenders. George was wearing a green forage cap with a feather in it, and green leggings that made his legs look like sticks.

George pulled out a wrapped box and checked the tag. ‘Margot. Merry Christmas.’

‘I wasn’t expecting—’ my mother began, but George cut her off, saying, ‘Nonsense, nonsense. It’s a season for giving, and giving’s a thing I enjoy very much. I’m doing this for me.’

The box was the size of a toaster, and clanked when she sat down to open it. She unpicked the sticky tape, folded the paper back and opened the lid. She lifted out a metal teapot that looked a bit like Aladdin’s lamp, followed by a matching cream jug and sugar bowl.

‘But they’re silver,’ she said. She felt the weight of the sugar bowl in her hand, then turned it over to check the base. ‘Aren’t they?’ She pointed to the hallmark.

‘All the better for making tea,’ he told her. ‘I imagine you’ll have left many of your best things at home in storage, but we can’t have you making do. Making do is so sapping for the morale. And no British home is complete without a nice tea set.’

‘Well, I think . . .’ She stopped herself. ‘Thank you. That’s very generous.’

‘And now, for the man of the house . . .’ George continued, before she could say more.

He reached both hands into the sack, each of them taking a corner that was stretching the red fabric. Capability opened the sack as wide as possible and George lifted out something large and rectangular. It was the shape and almost the size of the Romney paintings, and I wondered for a moment if it might be one. Anything seemed possible. I checked the walls. The paintings were still there, the breast still perfect. The woman was now giving me a look that said she’d seen me topping up my champagne and knew I was drunk. It was pulsing in my head – the champagne or the coffee or both. My face felt hot.

‘Now, I know you’re quite the yachtsman,’ George was saying, handing the present to my father. ‘And I’m sure you miss having your Olympic yachting photographs on your walls.’

My father looked perplexed, as though he’d let something out that he hadn’t meant to. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and seemed about to explain himself.

‘Well,’ George went on, ‘this is a little something for a seafarer.’

He held one edge of it while my father pulled the paper away. It was an old map, framed. It had sections of coastline marked in detail, some coloured a pinkish red, but there were lots of gaps and spaces and I had no idea where it was.