‘Fred thinks?’

‘Yes. And he’s the gospel when it comes to this. He knows this bloke from school – the chancellor. The Proctors know him, too, and they’ve already put a word in for us. It’ll take a bit of toadying – and God knows I can’t stand the toadying – but it’s a major competition and we’d have a decent chance. What do you think?’

‘We can’t be out too late,’ she said. ‘The mixer’s coming in the morning.’

‘I’ll be sure to get you home by midnight.’

‘But I don’t know what I’d wear. I’d have to get my dresses out of mothballs.’

‘It never matters what you wear, my love. It’s what you have to say that counts.’

She hummed at him. ‘If that were true, we’d have the conversation on the phone. Where are we meeting them?’

‘At Rules. Fred’s organized a table.’

‘Oh, terrific. Pastry all the way.’

In these moments, Charlie understood he was supposed to stand there and pretend he wasn’t listening. He could manage it, up to a point, but there was only so long he could watch the tenderness between the Mayhoods without feeling sickened with himself – for sheltering so many urges in his head that were invisible. If either of them ever saw the picture show he played himself at night in bed, the visions of her that he put to use under his sheets, they’d ship him off so far from Leventree he’d have to learn a different language. He was thinking now of Florence sitting on her bedspread in a plain black dress, her legs in sheer tan stockings, crossed; and she was reaching down to slide her pointed foot into a spindly shoe, her songbird pendant hanging like a plumb bob, swaying.

‘This list,’ he said, with his eyes on the space between them, ‘what will it mean if you get on it?’

Mr Mayhood said, ‘A lot of work, potentially a lot of money.’

‘It’ll mean all hands on deck for a few weeks – or even months, depending on the deadline,’ Florence said. ‘A competition is a full commitment. You can’t approach it any other way. And usually it’s a perfect waste of time and effort. But then sometimes –’

‘Sometimes, Charlie, you get lucky,’ Mr Mayhood said. ‘And even if you don’t, the work’s its own reward. There’s no such thing as failure in this business, only disappointment.’

*

From his room, they watched the Austin’s headlights beaming on the drive until it coasted out of sight. The darkness in the yard seemed thick as mud but there weren’t any nightjars churring in the trees tonight – that noise he’d grown familiar with at Huntercombe, like broken radios that never find a frequency. There wasn’t even time for him to lift the sash and have a smoke before his sister climbed the ladder to his bed and flopped down on it, saying, ‘I should think we’ve got at least till half past twelve. Let’s make the most of it. A bit of reading maybe, or perhaps I’ll get on with some knitting …’ She mumbled this last part towards the ceiling, with her skull pushed deep into his pillow – he’d probably be finding strands of her coarse hair entangled in the cotton until laundry day. ‘Or,’ she said, quick-rolling her big melon of a head, so he could share in her delight, ‘in the parlour there’s a bottle of White Horse – it’s the real thing, too. They keep it right back in the cupboard, and it’s open but it’s nearly full, so neither of them must be partial. Me, I wouldn’t mind a glass or two. I’ve not had proper whisky for a while. Mix it with a bit of soda. Lovely.’