The comedy of history has found its way to this wild estuary. Some idiotic bankers fuelled by testosterone have made ridiculous decisions and he is the victim. For a week the rain has been striking the front of the boathouse like bird shot. (He thinks of the late Sir Harry shooting a pheasant: it falls with a soft mortal thump for the Labrador to pick up.) But he hasn’t let the grass grow under his feet. He has been working. And now, in the middle of a squall, he has written the last, resonating line of his screenplay:

LAMONT: I mean to say, whether a yarn is tall or small, I like to hear it well told.

He sees his financial problems now as the product of hubris; the classical failing is behind all this. His problems are nothing. The script is money in the bank.

The gale is smashing against the soon-to-be-repossessed boathouse. He has withdrawn the four free tickets in a petty, but satisfying little revenge. He sees that his troubles have freed him. In the past week, stoked by two new varieties of Binster’s pies and encouraged by the last of his good coffee, he has finished a masterpiece. Daniel will love it. No more children’s drama, no more horse boxes and horse-induced rashes. The rashes still linger, but the itching has eased. He will have proper meals.

The postman, Brian, arrives; he sees himself as some sort of heroic explorer to have driven the few miles in his van with one letter.

‘Shocking weather, isn’t it?’

‘I like it,’ says Artair.

‘Artair, can I use your toilet?’

‘Go ahead. Straight through the kitchen.’

He looks at the envelope, and his heart lurches as he sees the handwriting; you never forget handwriting.

Dear Artair

Thank you so much for your wonderful letter about Harry’s death. I loved the couplet from ‘Morte d’ Arthur’. I can hear you reading it. Do you still have that lovely voice?

As you can imagine, I am in complete shock, but your kind and compassionate letter – despite our history – has reassured me that there really is love and kindness out there.

When I am settled, let us meet again. I believe your grant has been terminated for some reason and I enclose a cheque for £25,000. This is not out of guilt or regret but because I know you have a heroic spirit which I once shared. The funeral was at the family church, All Hallows, on Monday. It was very beautiful, but I am still down.

With fond regards and with warm thanks for your generous letter, Fleur

The Tubal’s cheque is in the name of the Lady Trevelyan-Tubal Trust. He holds it for a moment to see if there is more to be gleaned. He hears paper tearing and the lavatory flushing. God, the postie has been having a dump in there. When he emerges, doing up his shiny serge trousers, Artair summons him.