‘You make it sound so rational.’ I sniff. ‘But face it: you were running away in some kind of blind panic, or breakdown, and simply walked through the first open door. Just tell me this, I have a right to know. What were you fleeing most? Your gambling debts, the obligations of talent or the intolerable expectations of those who loved you – my parents, me, your own dead parents?’

He winces, but does not flinch. ‘My mentors,’ he replies, ‘had become my tormentors. They idealised me, demanded more than I could give. But I assure you that I was not running away from any one of them. It never crossed my conscious mind to escape. True, I was a bit worried about the debts I had run up––’

‘Some interesting-looking Mediterranean types came by Blenheim Terrace after you left.’

‘I hope you sent them packing. Those villains double-crossed me. I found out that they owned two of the clubs where I lost money and were just using me to test their defences against method gamblers. I had no reason to pay them back, since the money they lent me I lost to them. I let them think they scared me, but I had friends who were watching out for me . . . I was in no immediate danger.

‘As for other pressures, I was not afraid of my talent; it was something I was born with, like a kidney. I never gave it a second thought. My greatest regret has been the distress I must have caused you and your family, who showed me nothing but kindness and love – what we call chesed, one of God’s attributes. Looking back, I don’t believe I had an alternative. What happened, happened. After that, there was no turning back. Having defaulted on my début, I could hardly turn up months later expecting forgiveness. Having chosen another way of life, there was no point in making contact. Look at us Martin: we are worlds apart with nothing to say to each other. I am sorry, truly sorry, but we are resilient people and I imagine you managed to get over it in the course of time.’

It is time for me to apprise him of the damage he did, then to present the bill. Briskly, I run through my mother’s madness, my father’s death, the near-bankruptcy of Simmonds Ltd. He listens mutely, fingertips pressed together. ‘Forgive me,’ he murmurs, when I have finished.

‘You owe me,’ I retort.

‘I know,’ he sighs.

‘You will have to make good.’

‘What do you mean?’

I need to call another pause. I plead a full bladder, step outside and rehearse my next scene. I shall have to play it not with my father’s silky persuasion but with Aunt Mabel’s enviable bluntness, some gene of which I have hopefully stored within me. I shall slam him, metaphorically, against a door and grip his windpipe in my unyielding hand.