‘I’m glad I came. I’m glad I saw you and Helen. You’ve made a good life here all in all. You belong to the place. I wish I belonged to a place. I realise now that’s not as easy as it seems.’

‘Just congenitally a stick-in-the-mud,’ said Pearly. ‘Gateses have been around here almost forever.’

‘Years ago I bought a holiday home in Criccieth, North Wales, close to where Lloyd George was born. A stone cottage in which nothing worked, including my marriage. I realised that it was only because I spent so much time at my job when I was in London that we had lasted as long as we did. Marriage is the most important place you live in. You’re lucky.’

‘Maybe not so much. I am with Helen, of course, but I feel a bit responsible for what happened to Gumbo, and there’s been other poor decisions. Par for the course, I suppose.’

‘Nobody pushed him into anything, and he’ll be okay. Gumbo’s a survivor. You haven’t fucked up more than anybody else.’ Andrew rarely swore, and the word sparked out because of it.

Before either of them could say more they were interrupted by Paul Wrinskley, who in dual role of reporter and photographer wished to take a final advantage of Andrew’s visit. Pearly and his illustrious classmate were asked to stand before the main window with the railway station visible behind them and the hills as backdrop. Others gathered behind Wrinskley to look on, pleased with a brief entertainment as they awaited their journey. ‘Shake hands, please,’ said the reporter, his tall figure bent at the knees as he sidled about to find the best angle for his shot. Afterwards he had a few questions for Andrew, who placated the provincial insecurity from which they arose with urbane assurance. ‘Sorry I can’t stop to natter,’ said Wrinskley afterwards, assuming that a disappointment for all. ‘There’s a parade of vintage cars coming through, and I want to catch them in the main street.’ He strode away with zealous purpose, notebook in one hand, camera in the other.

‘It’ll be front page,’ said Pearly. ‘Not war, disaster or political triumph, but a line of old bangers all polished up. It’s all about local life here.’