Strangely, it was Mr Napier who had teamed Harold and Queenie together all those years ago. He had summoned Harold to his wood-panelled office and told him he required Queenie to check the pubs’ account books on site. He didn’t trust the landlords, and wanted to take them unawares. Since the lady didn’t drive, however, someone was required to take her. He had thought carefully about the matter, he said, tugging on a cigarette; as one of the more senior reps, and also one of the few married ones, Harold was the obvious candidate. Mr Napier stood with his legs wide, as if by claiming more floor space he became bigger than everyone else, although actually he was a wily figure in a shiny suit, who barely reached Harold’s shoulder.

Harold had no choice, of course, but to agree. Privately he was anxious. He had not spoken to Queenie since the embarrassing episode in the cupboard. And besides, he had seen his time in the car as his own. He didn’t know if she would like Radio 2, for instance. He hoped she wouldn’t want to talk. It was bad enough with the chaps. He was uncomfortable with female things.

“Glad that’s sorted,” said Mr Napier. He held out his hand. It was disconcertingly slight and moist, like taking hold of a small reptile. “How’s the wife?”

Harold faltered. “She’s well. How’s –?” He felt a cold panic. Mr Napier was on his third wife in six years; a young woman with high blonde hair, who had worked briefly as a barmaid. He didn’t take it kindly when people forgot her name.

“Veronica is splendid. I hear your boy got into Cambridge.”

Mr Napier broke into a grin. His chain of thought shifted on a sixpence; Harold never knew what was coming next. “All brain and no dick,” he said, spitting out a shot of smoke from the side of his mouth. He stood, watching and laughing, waiting for his employee to come back at him, and knowing that he wouldn’t.

Harold lowered his head. On the desk stood Mr Napier’s prized collection of Murano glass clowns, some with blue faces, some lounging on their backs, others playing instruments.

“Don’t touch,” said Napier, and his forefinger shot out like a gun. “They were my mother’s.”

Everyone knew they were his prize possessions, but to Harold the figures looked misshapen and lurid, as if their limbs and faces had contorted like slime in the sun, and the colours congealed. He couldn’t help feeling they were mocking him, even these glass clowns, and felt a wave of anger lick deep in his belly. Mr Napier twisted his cigarette in the ashtray, and moved to the door.