It became apparent as the minutes wore on that Francis would not come. I was afflicted by the deeper certainty that, even if he did, Jeremy’s ingenuity was not up to the task of making him take the first step towards a reconciliation. Only a resurgence of the natural love between brothers could have achieved that, and Francis was becoming impermeable to love. At about four o’clock I walked him back to the station through the grey drizzle. I held up my black umbrella over the two of us as we went, tilted forwards against the wind. We walked in silence.

At the station we shook hands, and I asked him, ‘What will you tell your father?’

‘I’ll tell him that Francis is safe and well, but that he isn’t ready to speak to him yet.’

This made me so sad that I wanted to hug him. I wished with all my heart that it could be true. I put out my hand and shook his firmly before showing him to his train.

Later, I guessed that this half-hearted attempt at contact must have been worth more to Lord Soulford than all the money and trouble his son had cost him in the past. He could say to himself, and to others (once even to an interviewer in The Times), that he had tried to bring Francis back into the fold, that others had lied to him about the true state of his son’s welfare, and that he had been cheated of his chance to save him. He thus neatly laid a blame at Jeremy’s door which the poor boy was not equipped to handle. I am inclined to believe that Lord Soulford’s ignorance was rather more constructive than he cared to admit. He never deigned to call or visit in person.

When I asked Jessica what had happened, she said she had found Francis in an excellent mood that morning, and he had readily agreed to come to the meeting. Then, on the walk to the pub, he had simply bolted, running away down Green Street and across Market Square. She had called after him, even chased him a little way, but he was a quick runner. I asked her where he had gone, and she shrugged and said he hadn’t come home.

We might have spent more time trying to make Francis see his half-brother, but very soon after that, everything became irrelevant, because he told us what was wrong. It was then I learnt why he had been so desperate to see us again, and the true value he placed on our friendship.

19

IT HAD BEEN decided that I would speak to Lisa. Jessica said she was too tired, and besides someone needed to be with Francis almost all the time now. He had abdicated all responsibility, and keeping him out of trouble was a full-time job. I called Lisa up and asked her to meet me at the Slug and Lettuce. It was a pub we never went to, an anonymous franchised space with standard chrome and pine fittings and uniformed bar staff. I chose it because it was neutral turf. I had not seen her in three weeks, and I knew there was something to be feared from her conspicuous absence, as she did nothing by chance. I had planned to make small talk, to remind her of our personal relationship, perhaps even to try to draw her into a little nostalgia, but she turned up in an elegant charcoal-grey suit, which threw me instantly, and was so brisk and efficient in her bearing that all my little spring of gossip dried in my throat. She bought me a coffee from the bar, banishing my attempts to pay with a wave of her hand. I was outmanoeuvred, as even a gift of coffee might have provided me with a little emotional leverage with which to shift her. When she sat back down and asked me what I wanted, I just came right out with it.