‘I’m sorry, Mr Wright, I’ve really screwed this whole thing up,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid it has to be today. He’s sailing home tomorrow.’

‘Back to England?’

‘Back to England.’

The great man nodded, sighed. He stood there, twisting at his cane as though it were a cocktail parasol. ‘Well – what time’s he leaving for the pier?’

‘Late afternoon. Is that right, Charlie?’

They were talking past him now, as certain officers would do at borstal, and he felt uninvited, out of place. His embarkation time was two o’clock. When he confirmed this, Mr Wright said, ‘All right, in that case we’ll talk tomorrow morning. Bright and early. You can join me in the basement while I get my shave. Alice – ask Domingo to reserve the chair beside me, would you, please?’

‘Yes, of course. That solves it.’

Someone else arrived upon the threshold, leaning on the door frame. He was tall and tanned and wire-haired. ‘You asked to see me, Mr Wright?’

‘Hang on just a second, Edgar,’ came the answer, and he turned again to Charlie with the same amused expression as before. ‘We’re all agreed, then. Barber’s in the basement. Seven sharp.’

‘I’ll be there. Thank you, sir, for making time.’

‘All right now. Don’t blow it.’ The great man sauntered past him, saying to Edgar by the doorway, ‘What’s all this I’m reading in the Times about the permit? I thought everything was definite.’ And then he halted, glancing back at Charlie. ‘Oh, and you can leave your film for me. I’ll take a look at it, if I can find a moment.’

*

His sister visited his dreams again that night. He was lying on his back among the weeds. It seemed that he was hiding in the patch of grass where cars parked in his aunty’s close, run through with dandelions and creeping thistles, but everything had grown so high that he could hardly see the rooftops. There was a rattling engine noise nearby and it was getting closer. All the grass was shifting like a curtain suddenly. He felt a shudder in the earth. And she appeared in front of him, pushing a lawnmower. She was a giant, stooping figure, mowing with no care for her direction. The enormous rusty blades spun round and chewed the weeds, cleaving a channel, spitting out huge lumps of green. He called her name, begged her to stop. But she was singing to herself and couldn’t hear his tiny voice. Then, just in time, she cut the engine. Leaned to pick him up. For a second, he was in the bowl of her colossal hands. Her thumbs were pressing softly on his back. Next thing, she set him down and he was somewhere else – the back row of an empty cinema, alone. On the screen, there was a wooden ship and Frank Lloyd Wright was standing at the prow, his white hair flowing, pirate-like. And he was saying, Mouse, you’ve no respect. You’re giving me an ulcer.