This was an ex-rectory, for God’s sake – well, yes, for God’s sake until the church sold up – but he just rolled in from Hackney wearing a foul, pricey, two-vent sports jacket, no phone call or anything like that to ask if it would be convenient or suitable. He reckoned because he was who he was he would be welcomed all over, even at an ex-rectory. ‘Protocol’ was another word Manse had come across not long ago and greatly liked on account of all them o’s strung out so tidy in a line, though separated, and sweetly cooperating with one another in the changing ‘o’ sounds, but, obviously, that sod Egremont didn’t give a twopenny fuck for protocol. It happened like this: Manse heard the sound of a vehicle and when he looked from his den window saw a silver Bentley convertible pulling up on the drive. Manse had the idea that in the old days rectors wrote their reports to the bishop, and sermons and testimonials and that kind of thing in this den, as Manse called it – really, a study.
