The room we had entered was a snug little space where coats were stored during dinner. There was a row of brass hooks along one wall, and an oil on panel portrait of Sir William Butler by the door. In the centre of the room there was a small table upon which stood a brass lamp with a green glass shade. When the door closed behind us, Lord Soulford stood thoughtfully in front of his eldest son for a few seconds. The silence was broken by the vague murmur of conversation and laughter from the dining room. Then he hit him in the face as hard as he could.

I was astonished. Francis’s head snapped round with the force of the punch, and he stepped back to keep his balance. For a moment, I thought he would hit his father back. Violent potential suddenly radiated from his broad shoulders, and his usual dancer’s grace switched to the boxer’s shuffle as he reclaimed his balance and squared up to Lord Soulford, his torso swaying with tight vigilance that would not brook another blow. Francis was tall and broad, and more frightening in his rage than anyone I had ever seen, as the emotion simply did not belong in his repertoire. It distorted his features, turning him into someone else. He seemed suddenly massive, as if standing for the first time at his full height. It was strange to see his honed black frame and think that he had grown out of a splinter of the red-faced, portly man in front of him. The sense of impending danger penetrated even Lord Soulford’s smug hide, and he took a step away from his son, the mottled blood in his cheeks draining to reveal a queasy yellow. As was his habit, he sought to reassert his authority by speaking in a loud voice, barking out orders even as he was retreating behind the table.

‘Look here, boy, you deserved that, you bloody know you did. Take it like a gentleman.’

Francis teetered on the brink, his whole strong body poised on the delicate pivot of his emotions. I held my breath to see if he would close the circuit to let the present incident connect with years of stored resentment and surge forwards in anger. Everyone watched him with their own secret hopes. Nothing happened. In the end the old prohibition was too much for him; he could not strike his father. The force flowed out of him suddenly, the tension disappearing into the earth like electricity. His arms slumped, the fingers uncurled from their fists, and the weight of his intoxication fell across his shoulders, almost carrying him down to the ground.

An ugly look of triumph planted its banner in Lord Soulford’s eyes, as if he and not his son’s better nature had won the day. ‘You parasites. You live off me, you live off my taxes, and you think the world owes you a living. Well, not any more, Francis, you ungrateful little swine. From this moment on, you can take care of yourself. If you can’t do the smallest thing for me, I shan’t lift a finger to help you, not even if you come crawling from the gutter. I disinherit you.’