She wonders exactly what he means. Now Harry is speaking; he looks agitated and defenceless. Estelle feels the deadening sadness seeping into her, like damp on a wall. His mouth is forming words, but they come out as though he were speaking to parrots in their own language – harsh, peremptory little screeches, which have become separated from their parent consonants.

‘He is upset. He says you haven’t answered his letters.’

When she and Harry are alone together his decline is not so obvious.

‘OK, Dad, don’t fret. We’ll have lunch and talk later.’

He puts his hand on his father’s shoulder. His father’s lips are speaking silently, but not even Estelle can interpret.

‘Dad, thank you so much for your letters. Particularly about caring for our customers. I have sent a memo out to all the staff, quoting you.’

He has, but it’s part of a hasty restatement of so-called core values.

Harry utters some words.

‘He says you don’t read his letters.’

‘I value his letters enormously. Dad, I really do.’

He and Estelle help his father up and he totters to his usual place at the head of the table. The seaward side of his face has a deep colour, flaring alarmingly.

‘Estelle,’ Julian says when his father is safely seated. ‘I know you love him and I also know that you are freely interpreting his ramblings for me, and oddly enough I appreciate it. But I can’t write back every day, or even read them all. It’s hopeless. Will you just email me a few notes telling me how he is and so on? You know, what’s on his mind? Give me a digest.’

Even as he says this he wonders if there is anything on his father’s mind; perhaps his mind is just sifting aimlessly through the remaining, dwindling stocks of memory. Mostly he looks cheerful but now Julian thinks he detects a deep fear of what’s to come. But then who knows if futurity is a concept he can understand?

‘I will send you a few notes,’ says Estelle. ‘He is deteriorating. It’s only when I see him with you that I see it clearly. It’s not good. I wanted to ask you, can we get the consultant down here more quickly?’

‘Absolutely. Email my office and tell them I want Mr Abbott down here as soon as possible, if you think it’s necessary.’

They sit around the old patriarch, drawn and repulsed in equal measure. Bryce talks about the boat, in the hopes of interesting him, but his eyes are fixed on the windows. His face has a kind of haughtiness which Julian recognises, the higher boredom of the rich and privileged.

After lunch with a little help from Estelle, Sir Harry Trevelyan-Tubal, Bt. signs the trust deeds and the Lasting Power of Attorney. Julian asks Estelle to put them somewhere safe until he leaves.