‘What exactly is it you’re doing there?’ his father asked, pouring a third glass.

‘It’s government communications.’ The prescribed wording.

‘Wasn’t your doctorate on radio waves?’

He nodded.

‘Wonderful thing, this new radio of mine.’ His father waved in the direction of a mahogany box in the corner with a fretwork sunrise pattern over the speaker. ‘Been hooked on the Test Match this past week or so. And the music is like having a symphony orchestra in your own home. A real treat.’

So long as his father believed that he was working on radio broadcasting, Vic was on safe ground. But the relief was only temporary. His father looked up, fixing him with a slightly bloodshot eye. ‘So what exactly are you doing with radio waves, boy?’

‘You know I can’t tell you any detail. I’ve sworn not to.’

‘But I’m your father. You can trust me.’ A shaky finger found his lips. ‘Shhh. Won’t tell.’

‘It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that we can’t tell anyone. Not even family.’

‘Just a hint?’

‘Please don’t press me. I’d be breaking the law if I told you.’

His father harrumphed, slammed down his glass and pushed himself unsteadily up from the chair.

‘Time for bed, boy. You’re in the back room.’

Auntie Vera had roasted a chicken for Christmas dinner the following day, and looked crestfallen when Vic asked for a plate of vegetables. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ she asked. ‘It’s from the farm up the road. Special for Christmas. I suppose this is one of your mother’s fads?’ She had never approved of her brother ‘going native’, as he’d once overheard her saying, marrying an Indian woman.

He’d had the same grilling when first arriving at the Manor.

‘What, you don’t eat bacon, Mac? Is this some crazy religion of yours?’ Frank had asked, that first morning.

‘I don’t eat meat of any kind these days,’ Vic had replied. Since leaving school he’d decided to follow his own preferences. He’d even discovered the term for it: vegetarianism. ‘And yes, it started because my mother was Hindu, but I still keep the habit even though I’m not religious any more. It’s the texture I find difficult, to be honest.’ He refrained from adding his usual justification: the Greek philosopher Pythagoras, father of geometry, was reputedly vegetarian.

‘Hasn’t done the rest of us any harm,’ Frank had grumbled. Looking back, it was clear the man had marked him out as different right from the start. But why should that make him any less loyal? Even though he tried not to let it get to him, the suggestion still rankled.

The cooks at the Manor did their best, slathering vegetables with scrambled eggs or glutinous cheese. Although he longed for one of his mother’s vegetable curries, coconut rice, sag paneer or a bowl of spicy dhal, Vic forced himself to eat them.

For now, the pulling of crackers and the telling of weak jokes distracted his aunt’s attention and it was soon time for Christmas pudding. As usual, this was the only part of the meal he really looked forward to; at the Manor it was stodgy jam or treacle sponges, and even though he knew they were made with beef fat, they were just too delicious to resist, especially served in a pool of custard.