‘You’re a lucky man,’ Cort said. ‘I never seem to reach the going-steady part.’

‘Don’t worry, Fred, I’m bound to ruin it eventually.’ He rummaged in the sodden lining of his coat to check he had his keys.

‘Do you have a picture?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Of her – your girl. I’m sorry, I don’t know her name.’

‘It’s Florence,’ he said. ‘And yes, I’ve got one, thank you.’

As soon as it was obvious he wasn’t going to share the photograph, Cort laughed and shook his head. ‘My goodness, you’re not easy to make friends with, are you, Mayhood? I mean, a fellow really has to earn it.’

‘We’re colleagues,’ he replied. ‘We needn’t be blood brothers.’

‘That’s a shame.’ Cort smoothed the rain out of his hair. ‘I’ve always found it easier to work with people I get on with.’ There was a note of approbation in Cort’s voice and then a slight contraction of his eyes after he spoke. ‘You and I should get a drink. That’s what we ought to do.’

‘It’s nearly past my bedtime.’

‘Come on. Just a half? Have mercy on me.’

Thunder rumbled overhead. The rain was growing heavier. It seemed that Cort was only going to pester him until he ran out of excuses. ‘All right. Where?’

They went just round the corner to the Masons Arms. The snug was busy, full of drinking men’s unvarnished chatter, but compared to Portland Place it felt subdued. They hung their coats beside the fireplace and Cort dried off his hair with an enormous hankie; then he bought two halves of mild and carried them to a free table.

‘Cheers,’ Cort said, raising his beer as they sat down. ‘Here’s to Mr Wright and – what was it? Snowdonia?’

He had to laugh. ‘Usonia.’

‘Ah yes, that’s the one. Usonia!’

They clinked their glasses. He was lighting up again when Cort said, ‘I’ll never understand how you can smoke those gaspers. You might as well chew on a lump of coal.’

‘They’re cheap, that’s all.’

‘So’s tripe, but I don’t eat it.’

‘Good for you, Fred. Some folk have to eat whatever they can get.’

He didn’t mean to be so blunt. Most of his hours in the office at Stack Furnish were spent avoiding frank exchanges such as this: exposures of his background that could make him vulnerable to judgement. He’d been shaped by his mistakes, his hardships, and would not deny them. But somewhere down the line (in fact, he knew exactly when it was: the morning of his interview for the assistant’s job, when Mr Stack and Mr Furnish had asked him to describe his time in borstal, as though it were a stint in Gandey’s Circus) he’d realized it was better to deflect attention from his past. It was bad enough he had to speak with Bootle in his voice, buffed out and made presentable, but still apparent, still remarked on. He’d become the office curiosity, a lightning rod for condescension from the Harrow boys like Ibbot. Sly comments were already being passed in whispers – he was sure of it. He’d seen their faces simpering when he came back from lunch or went into the storeroom. Oh dear, there goes Mayhood in that cheap hat from the market.