‘Sir, it’s out of my hands. The payment, I think, is from a private individual, not the bank itself.’

‘Can I tell you something, you fucking intellectual and artistic pygmy, this money is a lifetime grant made to me by the private family trust of Tubal’s. My ex-wife is now Lady Trevelyan-Tubal and this is a legally enforceable contract, if you like, a sort of alimony, and it cannot be cut off. Are you sure it isn’t just a malfunction of your notoriously useless systems?’

He says the word ‘systems’ with fastidiousness and drawn-out emphasis.

‘Mr MacCleod, I understand your concerns. I really do, and by the way my children are looking forward as usual to the Easter production The Wind in the Willows at the primary school, but the rules have been tightened up.’

‘I am in mid-negotiation with Daniel Day-Lewis, about a major collaboration. My collection of manuscripts is being priced even now by a leading American university. I have a full touring programme this spring.’

He’s sounding, he thinks, not like a stage victim, but a real victim. There’s a slight, weak whine in his voice.

‘Sir, I am sure it’s just a slip-up on their part. Like most banks, they may have laid off staff. Look, I shouldn’t be saying this, but most banks, including ours, are making cuts.’

‘When I have spoken to my man at Tubal’s, I may decide to move my account elsewhere.’

He straightens himself up, with difficulty: Lear leaving the hovel on the heath.

‘If it was our fault, I would understand. But anyway, when you’ve got to the bottom of it – and I am sure it’s just a glitch – please call me.’

‘I reserve my judgement.’

But when he tries to speak to someone at Tubal’s, using a number he has had for years, he is redirected to a call centre, where they disclaim any responsibility for any family trust and suggest he write or email head office for the appropriate address and to explain the nature of his problem.

‘I don’t have a problem. You’re the one with the fucking problem.’

‘I am sorry, sir, it is our policy that staff must terminate abusive calls.’

The line goes dead.

The tide has turned again and he can see the green-blue seawater beginning to jostle the darker, mud-laden river water, creating a series of small, turbulent rapids in the channel. Once he had a boat, but he was not good with boats.