While we spoke I became aware that a three-man film crew was quietly recording our exchange for a documentary about the production, a film within a film that took its place in the corridor of mirrors. This sense of illusions trapped within illusions persisted as I entered the large bedroom on the first floor. Here the principal actors were changing into their costumes, a cheery group whom I recognised from scores of films and television plays. Their faces seemed oddly different, but when they put on their makeup they grew more real. By contrast, I felt an impostor inside my John Bull costume of red tailcoat, top hat, and Union Jack waistcoat.

Later, in the long drawing room overlooking the garden, I stood with the party guests in a virtual replica of the house at Amherst Avenue. On the table beside me were copies of Time and Life dated December 1941, a week before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, and I almost expected the white telephone to ring with a warning that we should leave on the next passenger steamer for Singapore.

Standing with a glass of whisky in my hand, I felt curiously like one of the intruders who sometimes gate-crashed my parents’ parties—Axis agents posing as real-estate dealers, professional bridge players with a sideline in morphine, ex-nightclub hostesses on the lookout for my mother’s jewellery box—whom Boy and Number 2 Boy would escort firmly to the door. I waited for my parents to appear and ask me to leave, failing to recognise me in this caricature costume.

“Hello…” An engaging twelve-year-old with a slim face and mature eyes stood in front of me, wearing Turkish slippers, spangled vest, and trousers. He introduced himself confidently.

“I’m you…”

As he extended his hand I could see him doubting if this overweight figure could ever have resembled himself.

“… and we’re your mum and dad!”

An attractive couple in their early thirties, he in pirate costume, she dressed as a milkmaid, greeted me laughingly. While we spoke the lights filled the drawing room with a powerful glare. The dream was about to dream itself. The camera crew were ready for a tracking shot through the party. After talking to each other about the threat of war, the guests would say their goodbyes and step through the hallway into the drive, where a second camera would record our departure.

The director came up to me with a friendly word.

“All set, Jim?” He nodded encouragingly. “Just relax—put a hand on your hip. You look as if you know how to hold a glass of whisky.”

“I’ve had a little practice—but that’s as far as it goes.”

“What about a line of dialogue? You can give yourself one right now.”