At the turn of the millennium, Antony Rose is one of The Few still alive from the Battle of Britain. He is living out his twilight years alone, deep in the Norfolk countryside. Company is limited to the butcher, the baker and a couple of surly lifeguards at the local Leisure Pool, where he keeps himself fit and trim.

No matter for whom, for what.

It’s a fate he wouldn’t object to if he weren’t always so cold and broke.

He comes to believe his beguiling daughter-in-law is trying to put him away in a rest home, or do away with him somehow, in order to collect on his goods and chattels. Then a new neighbour, a rich widow, with whom he’d formed some attachment, becomes part of the conspiracy. His only defence is his son, Alex, but they don’t get on, even on the irregular monthly visits. Antony is a tee-total curmudgeon who knows oblivion is nigh. Alex is a mealy-mouthed Christian who likes a drink. No help there.

The fighter ace tries to duck and weave his way through this last dogfight, but the enemy is too wily and too strong for him this time, in his 79th year.

Once secured in the rest home he foresees his death, but strangely without rancour.

He knows he would not do it all again.