‘I’ll see what I can do, sir,’ the newsagent says, handing over the change with a genial grin.

When he gets back to his flat Vic puts three slices of bread under the grill (the toaster died months ago) and makes a large pot of tea in the old brown Betty. As usual, the toast burns, and as usual he scrapes it vigorously into the sink, scattering charred specks all over the worktop. He carries his plate to the table along with the jar of Tiptree Old Tawny and the butter still in its crumpled, crumb-spotted paper. Even now, all these decades later, it makes him smile to recall how his father, in the heat of India, would arrange special deliveries of ‘proper’ English marmalade and insist on twirls of butter served in a dish swimming in a pool of melting ice chips.

He pours tea into the mug given to him when he retired from the lab – Physicists do it with a Big Bang! – and vigorously stirs in two teaspoons of sugar, an occasional treat that has become a habit since he’s lived alone. From the fridge he takes out the milk bottle, sniffs the top: a bit whiffy, but it will do for today.

He takes up his newspaper. His usual routine is, while still standing, to scan quickly through each page to see if anything in particular catches his eye, and then fold the broadsheet into a more manageable size before taking his seat for a long, careful read. He can usually make this last at least a couple of hours, saving the crossword for later, with his afternoon tea. But this time, at the scanning stage, his eye is caught by a headline. He sits down with a thump, his heart hammering in his chest, and reads to the end, disbelieving. Then he sets down the newspaper with a small ‘oh’ noise, sitting very still.

The world seems to have shifted on its axis. The boss, gone? How is this possible? The man was a force of nature, a bundle of brilliance, of energy and drive and cheerfulness. Dead? And three weeks ago, nearly. Vic’s brain struggles to make sense of this new perspective.

He curses himself. How can he have missed the death notice? And now he’s gone and missed the ruddy funeral, too. What would the other fellows have thought of him, not even bothering to turn up? Not that he’s been in touch with any of them for years now, not since he retired from the company. He wonders with mild curiosity how many of the original team are still alive.

Those were vivid, brilliant years, the best years of his life, but it’s all so long ago now. The wake will surely have been a noisy, boozy affair; they’ll have made certain the boss got a good send-off. A wave of loss engulfs him. How he wishes he’d been there, sharing stories of the old days and toasting their achievements with fine Scotch whisky. Johnnie would have loved it.