Well, as soon as Mr Kimball saw that cushion waiting there today, he almost teared up. ‘Oh, that’s very sweet of you to think of me,’ he said. ‘I never meant to trouble you.’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I only had to fetch it from upstairs.’

‘Still, I do appreciate it.’

She glanced towards the mantel clock. ‘I’ll leave you gents alone. If there’s something else you need, you only have to shout.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Mayhood. We seem very well provided for.’

Charlie didn’t care much for the way he talked to her, as though she were a housekeeper. Neither did he like the way his eyes trained on her when she turned and went, that subtle tilting of his head to watch her backside. But no matter what he thought of Mr Kimball, he was stuck with him for one more year, until he’d seen out the duration of his licence. In the short term, he would have to go on meeting him across the dining table every month and smiling at the man’s half-hearted jokes. He’d have to carry on the rigmarole of putting on a collar and a tie to demonstrate his new sophistication. He’d have to keep on giving his thinned-out accounts of all the goings-on at Leventree, skimming off the fat of everything that worried him and leaving only the nice underlayer of truth.

‘Righto, then, Charlie, let’s get started.’ Mr Kimball was already wiping down his fountain pen – he kept an inky handkerchief inside his pocket for the job. ‘Tell me, what’ve you been working on with Mr Mayhood since we saw each other last?’

‘You mean the Mayhoods, sir.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Well, it’s not just Mr Mayhood who I work with, sir. It’s both of them.’

‘You’re right. The Mayhoods. My mistake.’ A note was jotted down on his pad. ‘You know, you mustn’t call me “sir”, if you can help it, Charlie. I’d prefer you called me by my name.’

He would’ve said, As long as you don’t ever call me ‘son’ again, but it was better not to air your grievances to men of a certain standing, as they only took offence. ‘It’s difficult,’ he said instead. ‘I’ve got so used to it.’

‘I understand. But do your best.’ Another flurry of the pen.

The most important thing about these conversations, Charlie knew, was that he put across the happiness he felt at Leventree. No matter how well he explained the methods he was learning in the draughting room, it all would get abridged in the report. It had been the same whenever he’d gone in to see the nurse at Huntercombe: he could rabbit on about his ailments, how they plagued him first thing of a morning, just what sort of sharp electric pain he was encountering, but the note he’d carry back to his housemaster would reduce it to Charles Savigear has been experiencing some mild discomfort in his knees and shoulders. Recommend a day’s exemption from his working party. So he rattled through the past few weeks of happenings for Mr Kimball’s benefit. First, an update on the progress of the root cellar, admitting he’d been proud to draw the negative and put his name on it: ‘Well, it’s a decent start. I hope I’ll get to do more complicated ones in future.’ Then he spoke about the dye-line prints they’d ordered from the special printers down in Guildford, and even went so far as to describe the thin white paper, soft as cotton in his hands, that he’d received a few days later in the post. As usual, he pitched his voice up loud to show enthusiasm. If he didn’t do this, Mr Kimball would chime in with something like, ‘You don’t sound too convinced …’ or ‘Wasn’t it as good as you were hoping?’ Last of all, he talked about the visit to the Proctor house, taking care to leave his sister’s part out of the story.