Jung sat smiling at them, enjoying the awkwardness, deliberately allowing the silence to stretch out between them. What was there to say? They could always ask each other how they had filled in the intervening thirty years, but that wasn’t really going to happen.

‘Would you like a cup of tea, Charles?’ His mother’s voice sounded rather regal.

‘Is it time for tiffin? I say, how splendid.’

If his parents spotted the mockery in his choice of words and tone of voice, they didn’t acknowledge it. His mother simply summoned the maid, while his father picked up a silver cigarette box from a side table and leant forward, opening the lid invitingly.

‘Do you smoke, young man?’

‘Don’t mind if I do.’

He took a cigarette; his father took one, too, then looked around for a match.

Another long silence as they smoked their cigarettes.

‘So tell me, Charles,’ his father said eventually. ‘What do you do these days?’

‘Oh, this and that.’

His father nodded, as though Jung’s answer explained everything.

‘Married?’

‘Actually I was, but the poor darling was murdered in her bed.’

‘Dear me. Dear, dear me.’

‘Frightful to-do.’

‘How simply shocking,’ his mother said.

‘You can’t imagine the laundry bills. Blood everywhere.’

His mother went even more rigid and the silence echoed until the maid returned with a tray full of tea things and poured out three cups, bobbed neatly and departed.

‘How’s Sevenoaks?’ Jung asked. ‘Not quite Simla? Rather deficient in the houseboy department, I imagine.’

‘Indeed,’ his father said.

‘But Mavis is a treasure,’ his mother said.

‘She looks it. Do you think she’d like to go to the flicks with me? Should I ask her?’

‘No,’ his father said. ‘No, I don’t think that would do at all.’

‘Does she not have an afternoon off? Pretty little thing and, well, you know, having lost my wife in such unfortunate circumstances, I’m keeping half an eye open for another one. Do you think Mavis might be the one for me?’

‘Mavis has a young man,’ Jung’s mother said stiffly. ‘We believe he is presently serving in North Africa. I trust you’re doing your bit for the war, Charles.’

‘Why yes, I am, mother. I’m spying for Germany.’

‘Spying for Germany?’ His father spluttered tea.

‘Jolly good chaps, the Nazis, don’t you think, Daddy? Herr Hitler’s an awfully decent fellow. Deserves our support, what?’

His father rose from his chair.

‘That’s it, young man. You might think you’re damned funny, but I don’t. I won’t listen to that sort of thing, not in my house.’

‘But I haven’t finished my tea. I was hoping for biscuits.’

‘Out. I want you out.’

‘Are you turning me away again, Daddy?’

‘What are you talking about?’