‘Hobbies are for people who don’t read books,’ said Noel, answering the only straightforward question out of the three.

‘So not keen on sports?’

‘No.’

‘You’re clever, then?’

‘Yes.’

Sim laughed again. ‘Good, I’m delighted. I hope you apply yourself more than I ever did.’

‘What’s Cambridge like?’

‘I think you’d probably love it. Full of people who prefer books to hobbies.’

‘Were you in the navy before the war?’

‘No. Called up in ’40.’

‘So what’s your profession?’

‘I can’t say I’ve ever settled to any particular walk of life. I tried working in the old man’s office and couldn’t keep my eyes open, got the heave-ho after a month or two. Definitely not the favoured son. Taught a bit, travelled a bit, always had a taste for the sea. I was thinking I might get a yacht after the war – nothing fancy, a sloop of some kind. Drift up and down the Med – you could come and be my deckhand, you could swim in the Aegean and learn to tie knots. Can you swim?’

‘Yes, and I can tie knots as well.’

‘Well, there we go; the perfect companion. The water there’s like nothing you’ve ever seen – one moment it’s so clear you’d think the fishes were suspended in mid-air, and the next it’s an absolutely brilliant turquoise, like a kingfisher’s back, and the next moment you look round and it’s purple as far as the horizon.’

The teasing note had momentarily gone from his voice, the sense that every subject had to be mined for levity. For a second or two they stood together on a sun-warmed deck, hearing the soft slap of the waves.

‘Homer described it as “wine-dark”,’ said Noel, ‘ονοψ πóντος. Although, apparently, it’s possible that ονοψ should actually be translated as “maroon”.’

‘Should it?’ Sim cocked his head in thought. ‘Well, now I consider it, the colour’s definitely on the reddish side of purple. A drinkable Merlot, perhaps.’ He grinned again, and this time, Noel found himself smiling back.

‘Do you know,’ said his father, licking his fingers and then screwing the lid back on to the beetroot jar, ‘that was just about the best meal I’ve had since the invasion of Sicily. All we seem to eat at sea is tinned fish, which is apposite enough, I suppose, but – what is it? What’s the matter?’

‘I have to get back,’ said Noel, already on his feet and picking up the jar and the tea-towel and Vee’s string bag. ‘I forgot.’

‘Forgot what?’

‘When you said “tinned fish”. I left the rest of them playing Sardines. They were all in the lumber room, waiting for me to find them, but that was ages ago. My aunt will be worried about me. Or annoyed. Or both, most likely.’

‘Who do you mean by “all”?’

‘My aunt and the lodgers, and …’ He felt something brush his cheek, and looked up to see a sky sagging with cloud. ‘If I don’t go, she’ll come looking.’