‘Cambridge. Rusticated after a couple of terms, I’m afraid – I’m not cut out for study.’

‘Were you engaged to be married?’

‘Lord, no! It was just a – no.’

‘And what’s her name?’

‘Ida. Ida Pearse. A very fine girl.’

It was the same word that Mattie had used: ‘fine’ had been one of her highest accolades, the single syllable large with implications of principle, pluck, nobility.

‘And how did you meet her?’

‘She was in a girls’ club on the Heath, run by your godmother.’

‘The Amazons?’

‘That’s right. You know about it?’

‘I recently met someone else who’d been a member. Can you tell me anything more about her?’

‘Redhead, as I said. Touch of the Burne-Jones about her looks.’

Noel swiftly averted his thoughts from an image of tall, high-breasted girls wrapped in pleated grey silk descending a staircase with indolent grace.

‘And she was a nurse?’

‘Not when I met her. She was only …’

‘What? How old was she?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Fifteen? My age?’ Abruptly, Noel stood up and walked stiff-legged around the clearing, switching direction aimlessly, stooping to pick up a twig, tossing it towards the fire and missing. ‘And how old were you?’

‘I was nearly eighteen.’

‘Why didn’t she tell you that she was pregnant?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you talked to her. In Gibraltar. Didn’t you ask?’

‘It wasn’t a … detailed conversation. She really didn’t want to discuss it. But of course, once I knew you existed, I had to find out where you were. It’s not every day one discovers one has a son.’

‘Don’t you have other children?’

‘No. No, you’re my sole heir.’

‘Does she?’

‘Ida? Not as far as I know. And she’s certainly a spinster – married nurses aren’t allowed, certainly not ones as senior as she appears to be.’

Noel carried on his circling of the clearing. A magpie was cackling nearby, and the naval officer heaved a branch on to the fire, and coughed as the sparks burst upwards, but the scene felt distant and artificial, as if he were watching from a seat at the back of the stalls.

‘So who’s your guardian now?’ asked Sim, his mouth full of cake.

‘My aunt.’ The reply was automatic, simply another layer of untruth on the existing pile.

‘And what’s her name?’

‘Mrs Margery Overs.’

‘And that house is hers now, is it?’

‘It’s mine,’ said Noel, impatient to get back to more central matters. ‘I don’t think I look very much like you.’

‘That may be so, but you’re awfully like my father at the same age.’

‘Am I? Have you a photograph?’

‘Not on me. Why don’t you come and sit down again? Who made the fruitcake?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s welcome, of course, but it’s a touch solid. More anchor than life-buoy.’ He looked up and grinned as Noel sat down. ‘So tell me all about yourself. Where do you go to school? Who are your friends? What are your hobbies?’