‘Little and Large.’ I recognised the stars from TV. They had their own show on the BBC. ‘What are they like?’

‘Sid and Eddie? Or should I say Cyril and Eddie? Sid Little’s actually Cyril Mead. But that’s no name for a comedian, is it? It sounds like someone who sits in a corner, drinking alone. They were very amusing, if a little vulgar.’ Sid Little seemed to be looking directly at us from the poster, and George stared right back at him. ‘Terrific for box office, though. And nothing but professional. Of course, the Hexagon’s opened in Reading since then.’ That thought broke his concentration, and he turned to me. ‘Have you seen it? The new theatre there?’

‘No,’ I told him. ‘We haven’t . . . I haven’t been to Reading yet. We’ve mostly been to the Surrey Hills.’

‘Well, don’t hurry to Reading on the Hexagon’s account. It has the aesthetics of a wartime coastal fortification. No class. Of course, they’re all very excited about it there.’

From a room down the hallway came a clatter of pots and pans.

‘Right,’ George said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. ‘To the swimming pool.’

He led the way, past a heavy black phone on a polished dark timber stand, and doors to unexplained rooms on either side. At its far end, the hallway opened out into a sitting room, with a kitchen off to one side.

‘Come and meet Mrs Keene,’ he said, as a drawer thumped shut in there. ‘Mrs Keene does for me.’

He indicated the open door with one hand, and I stepped into the kitchen before realising he had meant for me to look without going in. I half backed out and ended up in the doorway. Mrs Keene seemed about sixty-five. Her grey hair was in a bun and she was wearing a dress with a floral pattern, and an apron that looked like part of a set with George’s bathers. She had oven mitts on and was holding a roasting pan. She was the grannie from British stories. ‘Mrs Keene does for me’ – it still seemed like a sentence missing a word. Perhaps she cooked. Perhaps that was what she did.

‘Mrs Keene, this is Simon from next door,’ George said. ‘The young Australian I told you about. Simon, the indispensable Mrs Keene.’

‘Very nice to meet you, Simon,’ she said. She had dentures. All her teeth were the same even colour and they were perfectly aligned. She set the tray down on the cooktop. ‘You’re here to put Mr Lascelles through his paces in the pool? Turn him into championship material?’

‘The Moscow Olympics are only two years away,’ I told her. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘Oh, my goodness,’ George said, putting on a look of shock. He placed his hand flat on his chest, as if his heart might need a push to restart it.