‘Brian, I need a lift. Are you going back to town?’

‘It is against the rules.’

‘Bollocks. This is a matter of great urgency. Anyway, it’s against the rules to smell up my kitchen.’

‘I have to make a delivery or two on the way.’

‘ “Once more unto the breach, dear friends . . .” ’

Artair pulls on a huge trawlerman’s sou’wester. Indeed it belonged to a real trawlerman once, the skipper of the Cornish Maid who gave it to him in return for four tickets to Postman Pat, one of his early forays into children’s theatre. They stumble towards the little red van, bent against the ferocious rain.

‘Pull your hood up,’ says Brian, when they are in their seats.

‘The Post Office, if it hasn’t been sold to Dubai this week – oh, I forgot, Dubai is bankrupt – the Post Office, the Royal fucking Mail, is a national organisation serving – as I do – the people. I am entitled to be driven anywhere I like.’

‘Bloody hell. What a load of bollocks. I could lose my job.’

They stop at Caruan Farm to deliver a parcel of useless catalogues and at the Three Bells to deliver some rate demands and other bills; the envelopes are familiar to Artair. Brian tries to stop him looking into his mail bag.

When they reach town Brian insists on dropping him down a small blighted street behind the old jail, now closed.

‘Brian, it’s raining. You can’t see the end of your fucking nose, let alone a man in a sou’wester. I could be the Pope or the Postmaster General in here and nobody would be the wiser. Anyway, thanks for the lift.’

Almost before he has closed the door, the van is off. Artair walks in the direction of the High Street, the cheque deep inside his clothing. The rain is lashing the sou’wester futilely. He feels like Peter Grimes. He sings, ‘Peter Grimes, Pe-t-er Grimes’, with a falling octave. He marches into the bank and the effect on the waiting customers is just like the scene when Grimes bursts into the pub as the storm is breaking. Or was it after the boy was drowned? Peter Pears, buggery, Aldeburgh 1959.

‘I would like to see the manager.’

‘I’m afraid he is in a training seminar, Mr MacCleod,’ says a cowed teller.

‘I want to see him now. If he’s not fully trained, I will overlook it.’

‘I’ll try and interrupt him.’

He stands, a colossus, carved by Rodin, close to the counter. He’s dripping on to the floor.

‘Mr MacCleod, I am afraid I can’t –’

‘I want to apologise unreservedly for calling you a pygmy. It was not my intention to insult that fine people by the comparison.’

‘I am in a seminar.’