At the water’s edge he stops, shielding his eyes against the salt spray and scanning the one-hundred-and-eighty-degree expanse for any sign of ships: a tanker, a fishing boat or even a hardy pleasure sailor; but there is not a single vessel in sight. The seascape is empty, melting without pause for any horizon into the grey-blue sky.

He shivers again – he is getting colder and wetter by the moment. There will be no warm welcome at the Manor tonight.

That morning, back at home in London – so long ago, it seems almost like another life – Vikram Mackensie walked into the newsagents and exchanged a few words with Bilal, the shop-owner, just as he’d done for the past twenty years. He likes Bilal. Although neither of them would ever mention it, both considering themselves to be through and through Englishmen, they have a common heritage. The old country has since been bloodily sliced in two, but they still recognise small signs of a shared culture. Bilal has even been seen to offer a brief and self-conscious namaste from time to time.

Bilal is increasingly concerned for Mr Mac, as he refers to him with due deference, since he became a widower. He’d always been so well turned out, clean shaven and unbowed, with that enviably full head of white hair neatly barbered. But lately he seems to have stopped bothering about his appearance. In the past he could be relied upon to wear a jacket and tie even in the hottest of weather; but for the second day in a row, Bilal notices now, the old boy has pulled on trousers and an ancient parka over his pyjamas and thrown his feet into a pair of broken-down moccasins for the short journey down the street.

Of course, it is well known that Mr Mac is a brilliant scientist who did some very important and highly secret work during the war. He’d always had that slightly distracted air of someone whose mind is on higher matters; but these days he is becoming plain eccentric, Bilal opines to his wife. That hair hasn’t seen a brush or a barber in weeks, and it’s starting to look a bit Albert Einstein.

But Bilal understands that, for Mr Mac as for many other older customers, his brief conversations with them about nothing in particular might be the only human interaction they have in a day.

‘Morning, Mr Mac. What can I do you for? December twenty-first already, would you believe? Shortest day. Next thing we know, it’ll be 1974, and spring again.’ Even though his shop is festooned with festive glitter, he is careful to avoid mention of Christmas. Who knows who celebrates what, these days?

‘The usual, please.’ Vic cannot imagine springtime – it is enough for him to get through each day without despair – but he is always grateful for the shopkeeper’s determined cheerfulness. ‘Let’s hope 1974 is a better year. No more three-day weeks. No more talk of atomic bombs. And peace in the Middle East. Could you arrange that, please?’