‘That’s your bedtime reading,’ he said. ‘Lectures from the great man.’

‘I usually prefer the cowboy books. You know, Zane Grey, that kind of stuff.’

‘Well, my aim is to enlighten, not to entertain.’

Charlie was already reading through his copy. ‘It’s Frank Lloyd Wright,’ he said.

His sister called, ‘Who’s that when he’s at home?’

‘A famous architect. He built this fancy house beside a waterfall – somewhere in America, I can’t remember where. I heard a programme all about it on the radio.’

‘Oh,’ Joyce said. ‘I must’ve slept through that one.’

‘Well, you’d best start reading,’ Charlie said. ‘There’s bound to be a test …’

Florence watched her husband as he leaned upon the plan chest. There it was: that gladness he’d been hiding all day long. No man ever looked as handsome when he smiled as Arthur Mayhood. His lopsided mouth regained its symmetry and the creases of his face became more interesting, coherent, like the patterns of a leaf pressed in a book. ‘No test, no test,’ he said, ‘it’s just for inspiration,’ but they didn’t seem persuaded.

May 1939

His ovation went on just a fraction longer than it had the previous two evenings. If Mr Wright was pleased by this, he didn’t let it show. He waited at the lectern, blinking slowly at the crowd, as if to say, I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough, until the hall was poised and hushed. Latecomers jostled in the doorway for an inch of standing room. Four hundred sets of eyes were pointed at him. Still, he took a beat to organize his cuffs, arrange his necktie, clear his throat. He looked much older underneath the slanting lights: white hair, turkey neck, a cane, a suppleness about his features. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep in tenor but genteel, and Arthur felt as though it was addressing only him.

‘Good evening, everyone. In light of our discussion last time, we shall start proceedings with a short film of our work at Taliesin. My apprentice Jimmy Thompson is the man to thank for putting this together. What you’re going to see is just the first of many reels of footage he’s compiled …’ With a sudden gesture to the wings, the hall went dark and up came the long beam of a projector. The film was grainy but in glorious full colour, and the images washed over one side of Wright’s head and shoulders, causing him to squint.

Rocky desert land, blue sky, no clouds. A caravan of loaded trucks and motorcars winds down a sun-baked highway, spuming dust. The jointed wooden frame of a large building stands in silhouette. A shirtless man atop a ladder drives nails into a joist. He looks down at the camera, gestures with his mallet, grins.

Arthur had a view between the heads of strangers packed into the aisles. He was among the rest of the associates and students who could barely stand still or keep quiet, while the more esteemed guests took the padded seats. At first, he found it hard to focus on the speech. Not only was he bothered and uncomfortable, the amplifiers echoed in the hall. But once his ears adjusted to the interference, he could hear the great man’s words for what they were: a campaign for a better way of life.