His eye was arrested by the sight of a woman three rows ahead, dressed in vivid green, a striped wrap in cyclamen and purple lit with blue slung round her shoulders. He could make out a white neck and above it a shock of dark springy hair; by leaning forward he could just make out a pointed nose and one dark eye. ‘Who is that?’ he whispered in his parent’s ear. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Hush, I will introduce you presently.’ That his mother should know on the instant the only person in the audience who was of interest to him added to Claud’s sulks. He leaned back in his uncomfortable seat, letting the Bach flow, feeding his resentment (what a bloody evening), disgustedly anticipating the soggy quiches and mediocre wines which would be distributed by benign ladies (‘White wine or red? Or rosé? We have rosé, soft drinks too, of course.’) while their husbands collected donations for the charity in aid of which the concert had been organised. Claud glared at his mother, who was smiling as though amused. What’s funny about a boring provincial concert? It’s probably in aid of some wretched cretins who would have been happier if allowed to die at birth.

He was presently introduced to the woman in green in the foyer among a babble of voices. She stood with a piece of quiche in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, talking with her mouth full to the conductor of the cacophony they had just listened to.

Claud heard her say, ‘You know, I simply loathe modern music.’ She sprayed crumbs from a full-lipped mouth, caught Claud’s eye briefly, looked away, said, ‘Hullo, Margaret,’ leaned forward to kiss his mother’s cheek—‘I’m spewing crumbs, sorry’—and turned back to the conductor who, Claud remarked jealously, was a darkly attractive foreigner. Margaret Bannister turned, laughing, to speak to friends, leaving Claud to hover and snatch his chance when the guest of honour would be wrested away to be introduced to others. Knowing his mother, he guessed that he would, if lucky, have seven minutes to make his mark before she insisted on leaving. In the event he had ten.

‘He’s Rumanian,’ said Claud’s mother, as they moved away towards the car. ‘He probably thinks Laura pronounces love, loathe. She will risk insulting people in public, it’s the sort of joke which appeals to her.’

‘Is she a tough cookie?’

‘I suspect a heart of nougat. Would you like to drive?’

Claud guessed rightly that his parent was sick of his ill humour and ready to placate him. Had they reached the moment when he dared apprise her of his future plans? He got behind the steering wheel.

‘You should have more confidence in your driving,’ said his mother presently, as he braked violently at a crossroads.