‘Terrific,’ Capability said, with no emphasis at all. He pulled the door a little closer to himself and the breeze whistled around it. ‘Australia, eh?’ He opened his eyes wide, as if the thought was something to come to grips with. His accent wasn’t London, or the West Indies, but I couldn’t pick it.

‘Yes, Brisbane.’ I dropped down lower in the water to stay warm.

‘Cold for you,’ he said. ‘Summer there now, right?’

‘Yes. Summer holidays. Cricket season. The West Indies trained at my school on their last tour. Three years ago.’

I was finishing grade six then, my first year at the school. I ran around getting autographs – Lance Gibbs, Alvin Kallicharran, Keith Boyce – without knowing then who the players were. A week later and I would have been hunting down Viv Richards and Clive Lloyd, but I missed them both.

‘Manchester United trained down the road from my school,’ he said. ‘That’s my team.’ So, his accent was northern. ‘But that’s a good team the West Indies have. Certainly accounted for England when they were ’ere two year ago.’

He told George he’d be back on Monday and said he was pleased to meet me. He picked up the rake, which had been leaning against the glass, next to the door, and carried it down to the garden shed.

‘Mrs Keene,’ George called out as I got out of the pool. ‘Our swimmer is back on land.’

I dried myself quickly and got into my tracksuit. The sun was off the conservatory now, and the air was cooler. I put my socks on.

Mrs Keene brought in a tray and set it down on the table. It had a teapot in a knitted cosy on it, along with a milk jug, a cup and saucer that matched George’s, a plate of hot buttered toast fingers and a large slice of pink-and-yellow chequered cake.

‘I do hope you like Battenberg cake,’ she said, and I was confident I would. ‘I’m sure you need some after all your exertion.’

‘It’s been marvellous,’ George said, as I thanked her. ‘Simon’s been giving me lessons in floating rather than panicking. I can see myself becoming quite good at it.’ He topped up his tea from the pot. ‘Mr Callaghan could do with some lessons like that. Not panicking, floating. Narrow escape in that confidence vote on Thursday, ten votes out of almost six hundred.’ He gave me a conspiratorial look. ‘Mrs Keene rather likes Mr Callaghan, I think. Don’t you Mrs Keene?’

‘I’ve seen worse,’ she said. ‘And I expect I shall see worse again quite soon.’

George laughed. I reached for a piece of toast and noticed my father looking back at me through our kitchen window, a drink in his hand. He held it up, toasting me, I thought, until he reached his other hand across and tapped his watch.

I pointed to the food, and my father nodded and gave George and Mrs Keene a wave. I ate it all.