‘I’m glad you asked that,’ I said. ‘There’s only one way and it will cost us all a certain amount of embarrassment but it will work.’

I then told them the method. After a noisy and acrimonious ten minutes they agreed to it, but our friendship did not come unscathed out of the discussion.

Jock came in at that point with a telegram on a salver: he loves to show off in front of what he calls Company. I suspect that he’d really love to be a proper manservant; perhaps I’ll buy him a striped waistcoat for Christmas.

The wire was from Dryden. Its wording made me boggle for a moment: ‘DESHABILLE ARRIVES FALAISEWISE TOMORROW TURNIP PASTIES ESSENTIAL’.

If Dryden has fault it is that he fancies himself a master of telegraphese; it grieves his friends mightily. There was a time when he could take it or leave it alone but now, I fear, he is ‘medically dependent’ as the booze-doctors say. The déshabille clearly meant ‘the unfrocked one’, the Falaise is one of the Weymouth-to-Jersey mail-packets, ‘pasties’ was obviously a textual emendation of ‘Pastis’ by some officious Post Office worker but ‘turnip’ remained as obscure as it had been on Oxford Station.

‘Jock,’ I said, ‘is there any Pastis in the house?’

‘There’s a bottle of Pernod, same thing innit?’

‘Lay in half a case of Pastis today, please. How are we off for turnips?’

‘Funny you should ask that, Mr Charlie; the old geezer in the garden just planted a row ’smorning. Planted another toad, too. But they won’t be ready for a couple of munce yet.’

‘There should be some of the little French ones in the shops by now. Try the covered market in St Helier, or French Lane. If not, perhaps they can be bought tinned or frozen or dried – I leave it up to you, you understand these back-alleys of the world of retailing – “nourri dans le sérail, tu en connais les détours” – but get some by tomorrow night, even if you have to pay cash.’

‘Right. How many?’

‘How do they sell them, do you know? I mean, by weight, d’you suppose, or by the yard or what? What?’

‘By the pound, I reckon.’

‘Well, would you say that a couple of pounds would be a good stiff dose for a consenting adult?’

‘Plenty.’

‘Right, then.’

‘Right, Mr Charlie.’

‘Fascinating though it is,’ said Sam heavily, ‘to see you in your rôle of pantry-man, are you certain that there are not subjects of almost equal importance to be discussed?’