He threw up his hands in despair. ‘I’ve done all the work on Agden, and a decision is going to have to be made soon about Bradfield. The millers still need their supply to keep the new wheels turning.’ He paused, thinking about the new specifications he had begun working on. ‘You know, I think Dale Dyke could be rebuilt not far from the original location. If we are able to find—’

His wife cut him off. ‘John, it doesn’t have to be built by you.’

‘I know that.’

‘You are not indispensable. That company doesn’t care a fig about you. I do.’ She took his hands. ‘You’re indispensable to me.’

‘I know.’ He tried to smile.

‘See what tomorrow brings, then. You survived the flood, John. Think on that.’

‘I do. Every day, I do.’

The next morning dawned bright, and after breakfasting with Charlotte – he could manage just a cup of coffee – Gunson walked to the imposing Palazzo-style building that had been designed and built for the company, as if he was on his way to the gallows. He nodded to the early morning passers-by, certain that the fright that twisted his gut must show on his face. Even at his slowest pace, he arrived within a few minutes at the short flight of steps that led up to the entrance. The stone heads of mythical water gods stared out from above the apex of the arched ground floor windows. Today, he acknowledged them with a grimace. Would Achelous, Greek god of rivers, fall upon his head or did he have the sympathy of these deities? He had worshipped at their altar for long enough.

Although he was hardly ever in it, the chairman had his own wood-panelled office on the second floor, plushly furnished with thick velvet drapes in the window and red flock on the walls. He was sunk in a leather chair behind a gleaming walnut desk that held nothing but a lamp, pen, ink and blotter. Gunson thought fleetingly about his own desk, the surface of which was invisible, buried as it was under stacks of books and paperwork. Who would pore over his drawings once he was gone, and make their careless marks upon his life’s work?

The chairman smiled at him genially. ‘Please sit down, John.’

‘Good morning, Mr Smith. I trust you are well.’

‘Well, these are trying times.’ William Smith looked enquiringly at Gunson, clearly requiring some sort of response to this most obvious of statements.

‘They are, indeed.’

‘The shareholders are most unhappy, and who could blame them? We are in a precarious position in terms of both our profits and our future. I certainly do not wish to see us fall into public hands, do you?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

Gunson shifted in his seat. ‘Can I be frank? I don’t have a political bone in my body. All I want to do is build reservoirs. I have built eight,’ he paused, recalling the reaction at the inquest to this same phrase, eight mistakes, ‘and Agden is progressing well. I also have an idea for—’