There is no possible reply. But at that moment, and to my alarm, I see my father scything through the crowd. I remember with a shudder that Bernard Peck and Keith Kendall were contemporaries at the LSE in the mid-1950s. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard my dad refer to Kendall as ‘that blithering idiot’ – or worse.

Dad judders to a stop. ‘Good of you to come, Kendall.’

A nod. ‘Don’t mention it. Clare was remarkable. The work she did for me was outstanding.’

‘You didn’t really deserve her.’

Kendall is more decorous than I expected. ‘She kept me honest.’

Dad’s chest swells. His head goes up. For a moment, I think he is about to launch into a broadside on the subject of the honesty of Tory governments. How can I stop the inevitable scene?

He remembers where he is and who he is: a dad whose worst nightmare has come true.

‘I am sure she tried,’ he says softly. He moves away.

Kendall watches him go. ‘After all these years,’ he murmurs to himself. ‘Peck’s daughter . . .’ He checks himself. ‘I’d better make a move. It’s all pretty hectic.’

‘I imagine so,’ I say. ‘I don’t suppose you have a sense of when the PM will announce the election date?’ The question is out before I even know what I’m saying. I can tell how it sounds from Kendall’s expression.

‘You know you should switch off from time to time.’

I scramble to recover. ‘Sorry. What I meant is that I am probably going to take a few days leave. For obvious reasons. And I just wanted to work out when I need to be back.’

As it happens, I am scared of what I’ll do if I stop work, even temporarily. Probably drink myself into oblivion at The Groucho.

Kendall relents. ‘Absolutely not for reporting, but think about being back on Monday.’ He glances down, and I realise with some embarrassment that my hand is gripping the Nokia in my pocket. A reflex. Perhaps I will call this in. Another scoop for Gilbert Peck, the pro who is always on, even at his sister’s funeral. Nah. Clare would expect me to be that disrespectful, and for once I’ll let her down.

‘Thank you for coming,’ I say. ‘It means a lot to the family, even Dad.’ Kendall gives a politician’s practised handshake and turns away, almost knocking over Jeremy, Clare’s assistant, who has been hovering to one side.

‘Goodness!’ Kendall barks angrily – and both of us can hear him muttering under his breath, ‘Idiot.’ Jeremy is shaken. Maybe he is too lowly at the Treasury to be known to Kendall, who trudges back to the official car that is waiting for him round the front.