‘Thirty-four and counting – inches not years, of course. And keeping the Alzheimer’s at bay.’ He grabbed Tom’s arm and spun him round, as if he was a clockwork toy. ‘Come on, I’m famished.’ He marched him towards the dining room, where a table for two was waiting by the window. ‘Bloody good to see you.’

Behind the bonhomie, Tom detected his father’s anxious glances. Over the years, Hugh had seen him return from tours thin and bearded, bruised and battered, but always exhilarated by the job that was his life. But Tom knew he could count on Hugh to keep his observations to himself. Tom would discuss what had happened in his own time, if he chose to; there wasn’t going to be any third degree.

‘They’ve got rack of lamb on today – seem to remember it’s one of your favourites.’

‘Why are you staying up in town?’

‘Board meetings. Very bored.’ Hugh chuckled. ‘The old firm’s in the throes of a takeover.’ The city company he had served for three decades had persuaded him to come back as a non-executive director.

The wine waiter glided towards them. ‘Something to start, gentlemen?’

‘How about kicking off with a couple of glasses of your house champagne?’

‘We’re not celebrating anything, are we?’

‘Well, we won’t let that get in the way of a glass of fizzy pop!’

Behind his excitement at seeing Tom, Hugh seemed sheepish.

‘You’re so transparent, Dad. You would’ve made a terrible spy.’

A waitress passed them in the sort of black and white uniform no one wore any more.

‘So what’s it to be?’

‘Yeah, I’ll go with the lamb.’

Hugh waved the menu to flag down the waitress, like a ground-crew member directing a jumbo jet. Tom recalled being embarrassed by the expansiveness of his movements when he was a boy. Now his enthusiasm felt life-affirming and rather welcome.

‘Two lambs.’ Hugh winked at Tom. ‘And leave some space for jam roly-poly – bet you don’t get that in Afghanistan.’

As the waitress retreated, she gave Tom an appreciative look, which Hugh noticed. He leaned across. ‘Always good to see my DNA getting the attention it deserves.’ Tom gave his father a withering look.

The champagne arrived. They raised their glasses and drank.

‘Ah, that’s better.’ Hugh’s fitness regime had done nothing to dull his appreciation of alcohol.

‘Bit of a mess you’ve come back to. What’s your take on it all?’

‘I’m still catching up.’

Hugh furrowed his brow so it resembled rough terrain. ‘Some would say – indeed, are saying – that it’s the inevitable consequence of open borders.’ He gestured at the other diners, all older than himself. ‘That’s the prevailing view of many of us wrinklies. And these people coming and going from Syria, that’s another bee in their bonnet. Frankly, I think that aspect’s been blown out of proportion.’