A door banged. ‘Goodness Roger, whatever are you doing sitting out in the chill air, it’s getting dark, I didn’t realise your visitors were still here, surely you heard the dinner bell hours ago? You mustn’t get cold dear you know that, come indoors.’ Mrs Beale’s voice called from the lounge.

Harry and Pauline jumped up guiltily, felt the chill in the air, ushered the old man inside. He walked very stiffly, looked quite pale under the electric light in the lounge, held Harry’s arm.

‘You change into your pyjamas and get into bed,’ said Mrs Beale, ‘I’ll bring something warm to your room.’

‘We’ll take him to his room,’ said Harry apologetically, ‘I’m so sorry, we lost track of time.’

‘I do talk,’ murmured the old man to Harry as they walked slowly along the corridors, ‘I will talk.’

When they reached his room he opened the door and then pulled himself together with an effort, turned to them.

‘It was so good of you both to come,’ he said. ‘I don’t have many visitors.’ Pauline’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.

Harry bent and kissed the old man’s cheek, a gesture that surprised Pauline though she supposed it should not have.

‘It was good of you to have us Roger,’ said Harry, ‘I’m so sorry we kept you outside like that, it was very thoughtless of us. But – I am so glad to have seen you again.’ Pauline saw that the old man looked at Harry for a moment, the expression in his eyes unreadable.

Then as Roger Popham turned and took Pauline’s hand in his very cold one he suddenly said anxiously, ‘Did your father get the francs?’

For a moment Pauline looked at him uncomprehendingly.

‘The francs,’ repeated the old man, very urgently now as if making one last effort, ‘the parcel of French francs. It was illegal, of course, to send them.’

And then Pauline understood. ‘Yes,’ she said, her hand resting in his, ‘yes, he got them. We went on holiday to Brittany.’

‘Good,’ said Roger Popham, ‘good.’ And he sighed very deeply and turned and shuffled into his room, closing the door behind him.

14

In Sussex at dusk the sun was very low in the sky, lighting long, uneven ribbons of cloud from beneath so that the sky was grey and gold in streaming, ragged lines. Terence Blue stared at the effect as he drove; a book he’d had as a child, an illustrated Legends of King Arthur drifted into his mind, drifted out again. He had been banned from driving six months ago on a third drinking charge, knew he was taking a risk in his red noticeable car and his face plastered across all the newspapers. But he drove on and, just before the last rays of the golden, glowing Arthurian sun quite disappeared, he finally saw the sea.

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