I was enchanted by the image of this wholesome world of winter sports, with tweed and wet Labradors, green Range Rovers spattered with mud and the smell of cordite hanging over sodden fields. I thought of the magical day we had spent together after the night of Francis’s boxing match. I began to picture his house; a rambling old building with log fires and gloomy portraits, bedrooms with names and historical occupants, and a deep green lawn studded with thick white croquet hoops, ending in a ha-ha that gave on to a valley view. I knew such houses only from the sporadic invitations of a single prep-school friend. When Francis first broached the subject of the holidays I assumed it was his roundabout way of issuing an invitation, and I was excited. Time wore on, and no such invitation materialized. I had got so far ahead of myself in my imagination that this felt like a slight. I finally mentioned the subject to Jessica whilst Francis was buying a round of drinks at the bar of the Eagle, giving the conversation a definite boundary.

‘So,’ I said, ‘have you ever stayed at Francis’s house?’

‘Yes, once. But not again.’

‘Did something happen?’

‘Lots of things happened.’

‘Don’t be tiresome. You know what I mean.’

‘I know exactly what you mean. Don’t be nosy.’

‘I just want to know why none of us are invited!’ I blurted out.

Jessica looked at me with gentle condescension.

‘I mean, I know it might not exactly be Lisa’s scene, but the rest of us—’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t be a snob.’

‘Look, I’m not being a snob, I’m just trying to see it from his perspective. I would imagine the sort of people Lord Soulford invites shooting are fairly conservative.’

‘He’s not embarrassed by any of us, if that’s what you think. He took me and Lisa last year, and I had a very pleasant weekend, although I did have to bite my tongue when one of the elder guests described me as “peg candy”. And I don’t think he’s particularly embarrassed by his father either. I think the thing he finds most distasteful is himself, or the version of himself he becomes when he’s back there. I’ve seen it. ‘Yes, Papa, no, Papa.’ It’s terrible, you feel helpless and awkward. It’s like seeing a friend who was a champion sprinter unable to walk.’

Francis came back from the bar, coughing to announce his return. He set the drinks down, spilling ochre liquid from the broad rim of the pint glass on to the brown wooden tabletop. Jessica, who seldom drank, was having an orange juice. This put a premature end to the conversation, and Francis sensed the lack of closure, a thick anticipation hanging like cooking smells in the air. He had the social grace not to mention it, sensing perhaps that he had been the topic under discussion.

I was surprised, therefore, when three weeks into the Christmas holidays my doorbell rang and I found Francis on my doorstep. He had a bottle of champagne for my father that, despite its château and vintage, had the look of a last-minute airport-bought present, and a small overnight bag. He beamed when I opened the door, and cited a wish to surprise me as his reason for surprising me. His goodwill and humour swept aside all questions like the vanguard of a conquering army, and he had soon subdued any scepticism on my father’s part. He greeted everything in my household with a genuine and passionate enthusiasm. He noticed the fishing rod folded away by my father’s briefcase and overcoat in the downstairs closet, and when we came back to the kitchen, having first dumped his bag in the guest bedroom, he played my father with a perfectly judged discussion on the merits of a certain river near Dumfries.