Charlie took the new suede brush and carried into the kitchen the Hush Puppies that age had moulded into some sort of comfort for his feet, buffing hard to bring up a better nap. He’d worn new shoes for the job interview and the wedding, but he couldn’t now. Charlie Muffin had problem feet. Some days were worse than others. Today was bad. They were not misshapen or deformed or calloused: they just ached most of the time. He’d placed them – cautiously- into the hands of chiropodists and specialists who recommended supports, arches, built-up heels, shaved-away soles, and finished up where he’d started, with aching feet.

Charlie thought he should have received a pension. They were awarded for hernias and other army disabilities. And he was bloody sure that’s what he had – a provable disability from stamping around national service parade grounds in boots weighing a ton and over which they’d made him crouch, day after day, burning out the toecap lumps with a hot spoon and then polishing and spitting and polishing and spitting, to get a shine.

It was to escape from the parade ground that he’d sat the examination for the intelligence corps, competing with the Sandhurst failures who gargled their words and had MG sports cars to take advantage of the weekend passes they always seemed able to get. And beaten the bloody lot, with a 98 per cent pass mark, straight into a warm office and a comfortable chair. Which was all, initially, he’d considered it – a place to rest his feet and escape the stupidity of scrubbing coal bunkers with toothbrushes and soaping the inside of his trouser creases to keep them in shape for colonel’s inspection.

It had come as a surprise to find that he liked it. And was good at it. Where two other investigations had failed, he’d managed the arrest in Vienna of a cipher clerk dealing directly with the Russians and been promoted sergeant, but even then it hadn’t occurred to him that it might become permanent. After demob there was still Marks and Spencer and the guarantee of pension rights.