I can only agree. That wonderful girl of his is a perfect summing-up of the woman I so briefly knew. I’m about to press him further about Christianne when he changes the subject.

‘Sylvester,’ he murmurs, ‘was impressed.’

‘With Malo? My son?’

‘With you, my dear. Malo, I gather, is a work in progress. What did you make of the Twilight Fund? Dare I ask?’

‘I thought it was interesting.’

‘That’s a politician’s answer.’

‘Intriguing, then.’

‘That’s no answer at all, though intriguing has undertones of mischief, which might be closer to the mark than you think.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, what are you telling me here?’

‘Nothing. Yet,’ He smiles. ‘You, first. The Doomsday Clock? An Armageddon yacht at your beck and call? A nuclear bunker afloat? What do you make of it all?’

I do my best to gather my thoughts and sort them into some kind of order. It doesn’t help to know that this man has spent most of his life engaged with brains far bigger than mine.

‘I don’t understand his input, where he starts, who he talks to, what – exactly – he’s selling. He strikes me as an ideas man. Showbiz is full of them and he’s right to be excited because the best ideas can earn you a fortune. But what happens next?’

‘A very good question, and one I’ve asked him myself.’

‘And?’

‘He gives me all the buzz words. Vertical integration. Synergies of effort. The visionaries marching in lockstep with the boffins and the builders.’

‘Visionaries?’

‘I gather that’s the term he’s reserved for himself. My son was never one for understatement.’

‘And is that where his real talent lies? Selling himself?’

‘In one, my darling. You should take up croquet.’ He nods at a group of players on the lawn outside. ‘Straight through the hoop, no messing. My son could easily have been a waster, or even something worse. Thank God for the word visionary.’

‘But you think it will work? The Twilight Fund?’

‘I think it may keep the wolf from his door. It may not be the same thing. Sylvester has always had a predatory streak. He can sense weakness at a thousand miles. What he’s after, what he needs, are people with a great deal of money who are sufficiently alarmed and sufficiently gullible to take fright at where the world is taking us. It might be war, a proper war, the real thing, or it might be global warming, which is the same catastrophe slowed down a little, but either way – says my son – there are fortunes to be made. That’s where it begins and ends for Sylvester, though it pains me to say so.’

He sits back, picking the crumbs from his gardening shirt, while I wonder what qualifies as weakness in Sylvester Penny’s eye.