Andrew Nisse arrived two weeks before the reunion. He wanted to spend time with his widowed mother, who was in one of the new units at the Meadow Haven complex. He didn’t stay with her, however, and declined with thanks Helen and Pearly’s offer of hospitality, choosing to go to the Luxmore Hotel. Paul Wrinskley couldn’t get to him quickly enough, and there was an interview with the new knight in the next day’s paper. A photograph also, showing a slim, suited man standing at ease before the school monogram on the main gates.

‘Local boy makes good,’ Pearly remarked to Helen. ‘It’s always the same sort of approach, isn’t it? If it weren’t for the honours list there would’ve been nothing about him coming. No one can understand the work he does, can they? That’s what they should be talking about.’ He looked closely at the paper again. ‘I wouldn’t have known him at all,’ he said. ‘Certainly better dressed. A better haircut too. The family didn’t have much. I think his father worked in the post office.’

‘All the more credit to him for doing so well,’ said Helen.

‘Yeah, you’re right. He was bright and he worked hard, I’ll give him that. Is it okay if I invite him round for a meal?’

When Andrew came, he bore little resemblance to the boy Pearly remembered. He was still slim, but his longish, greying hair was combed back from his face in a continental way, his movements economical, his voice well modulated and with a quiet assurance. The English accent wasn’t pronounced, but he’d lost the Kiwi habit of a rising inflexion at the end of sentences. He brought a gift of Barrys Bay Gruyère he’d purchased in Christchurch. Cheese was an interest of his, he said, and when he travelled he liked to try local varieties, even visit makers if his itinerary allowed. ‘I sit in conferences and green rooms smelling of goats and camels,’ he said.

‘Camel cheese?’ Pearly had never heard of it.

‘It’s hard to make because of the different composition of the milk, but there’s a Dubai company that produces it. I’ve tried some there. So-so, I thought.’ Andrew was too socially adept to continue talking of his hobby. He switched to Helen’s flowers, glossed by the evening’s slanted summer sun. ‘My word,’ he said, ‘that’s a tribute to you. So few people in London would have a garden like this. Time, space, money, the weather. My wife was keen on pot plants. Maybe she still is. We’re not together now, unfortunately. My father had a great vegetable garden, I remember. Instead of playing bowls in the weekend, he’d be out there mounding potatoes or making liquid manure.’