Frobisher reaches the top, waves away my helping hand. “No, no. No need.” He hauls his black-clad bulk over the top rung. “My word,” he continues, lunging into an upright position, tugging a handkerchief from his breast pocket. “This is a crow’s nest, is it not. And you the pirate!” He sets about rubbing down his face, head, and neck with a circular buffing motion, as if burnishing brass work. “Pirates, I should say!” he adds, catching sight of Tom. All of this in the voice that I’d been so struck by before, the same hampered waffling sound. “Good gracious, Mr. Acton. This is a pretty pass. A clergyman repairing his own roof. Are diocesan funds really this hard to come by?”

I recollect myself—I’m so intrigued by the burnishing, the way it actually has made his head shinier—and glance down at my clothes. A paint-stained pair of dark blue canvas trousers, an ancient rugby shirt that has long forgotten its better days. And Tom in his dilapidated denim. “Forgive us, Archdeacon! We’re dressed for the occasion. And it’s only a few patches of tiling, so I took matters into my own hands.” I move to one side so that Tom can come forward. “Tom, this is Archdeacon Frobisher. Archdeacon, my son, Tom.”

Tom leans past me and extends his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Archdeacon.”

“Likewise, likewise, I’m sure.” Frobisher’s eyes bustle over Tom. “Are you down, Tom?”

Tom stares. “Down?”

“From varsity.” Frobisher sounds impatient.

“Oh. Yes.” Tom allows himself a single wild flicker of eyes toward me. “Yes. Down from varsity.”

“And what is your area of study?”

Tom produces a huge grin. “Sex change in flatfish.”

“Archdeacon, shall we descend?” I try to usher him back the way he came. “I’d have joined you below, you know, if I’d known you were here . . .”

Frobisher gives me a sharp glance from his pale thick-lidded eyes. It’s the look of an intelligent pig. “I don’t mind a climb. I scurried up and down a fair few ladders, I can tell you, when the Germans attacked us in the middle of the Atlantic.” A jovial smile stretches his lips, unnervingly simultaneous with a drilling stare for Tom. “But a glass of water would be most welcome.”

“I’m sure we can do better than that . . .” This may not be true. I think of the calcified inch of instant coffee in the jar and the single custard cream at the bottom of the biscuit tin. Tom’s eaten constantly since he arrived and we haven’t been shopping yet.