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The other day when I was in London he rang me and said: “Let’s have lunch. I’ll meet you at Euston.” He wouldn’t tell me where we were going. When I got to the station I was wearing a suit and he was dressed in something woolly and boots and he had a rucksack with lunch in it, he told me, and a stick. We took a train to Tring and set off across fields. He followed a map and we came to a police block. I began to smell oil. Will said to the very young policeman, “We want to go there,” and he showed the right of way on the map. The policeman wasn’t sure but Will talked him round — he was a bit awed by Will. We went on to Buncefield, where there had been the big oil explosion, dodging police cars. It was full of people with hoses. Then Will walked me back to St Albans, where we went to evensong in the cathedral.

We don’t see very much of each other these days, because I spend a lot of time abroad, but we do get together with our children. When I’m in London I hang out at his house, play with his kids, and have a very cheery meal.

WILL: Jonathan was gentle and sweet as a small child and had a very soft heart. I remember one time when the RSPCA brought several puppies round for us to choose from. I wanted the obvious star, a big black bouncy puppy, but Jonathan insisted we should have the runt of the lot, a small brown puppy. It was a choice made out of compassion. That was something noticed by others. He was given a specially created “kindness award” at primary school.

As children I remember us being very close — not forever in fraught situations, as he describes. He still talks of feeling guilty because I was offered a free place at the senior University College School and he wasn’t. We had both been at the prep school. As he recalls it, my mother was so cross she refused to let me go. I remember it as my decision. I didn’t want to go and leave Jonathan in the state system, so I went with him to Finchley Grammar, which then turned comprehensive.

There was the jealousy stuff between us, but it’s not something I go into because it’s not important now. The time we did begin to grow apart was when Jonathan started rebelling — something he has gone on doing. I was the conformist in the family. I complied with my parents’ expectations. They were bien-pensant chianti socialists and academics, and the prevailing ethos

was suffocating bookishness. But Jonathan became interested in making and spending money. He used to take things to school to sell; he took jobs and started a business, aged 18. It was a terrible attack upon our parents’ values. And his memories are of a difficult, chaotic home life that impacted badly on him. Whereas my recollection is different.

There’s a time Jonathan talks of when I said something during a telephone conversation that so enraged him we didn’t speak for several months. This clearly had quite an impact on him, but the truth is, I don’t think I noticed we weren’t speaking. He very much believes in talking about feelings, and I think if I have a criticism of Jonathan it’s that he is very gregarious and views the public as a mass psychotherapist.

But he gave me my best piece of career advice. I got a commission, to do a comedy book. But when it came to signing the contract I felt I was gazumped out of the deal. Even though it had been my idea, I was relegated to hired writer, then the book I had written was rejected. I was devastated, and it was then Jonathan said to me: “You have ideas and always will. These are people who are never going to have ideas, so they steal them. You should just get on with your own ideas.” That was the most helpful thing he could have said, and it is an attitude that crystallised and stayed with me.

I turned around and did my first serious book. I’m not aware of him being competitive about writing, although I accept it is tricky that we have both chosen to be writers. And we are both driven by my parents’ ethic of hard work and the wish to succeed. He is a far more commercial writer than I am and earns far more than I do.

He’s a very concerned individual and I have felt supported by him as an elder brother. During periods when I wasn’t functioning very well he offered work and was generally helpful.

When our mother died it was an interesting time. We were both in our twenties and quite young to be aware of mortality in the order of things. We were both in London and fairly close. I think we took it in turns to cope with the things that needed doing.

What Jonathan and I absolutely share is a sense of humour, and we have great fun with naughty riffs and teasing people. I visit him in Ireland once a year, usually taking my younger children, and he has always got on well with all my children — he’s a very generous uncle — and I am extremely fond of his boys.

But the thing I regret not having more time for is walking with him. Walking is a passion of mine, and Jonathan is a very good companion. It’s a time when we bond very well. He knows when to comment on things and when to be quiet. Last time he was around I organised a walk to Buncefield in Hertfordshire where the oil-storage- depot disaster took place. It’s quite a contrast to where he lives, in a beautiful part of Ireland. He is much more romantic than I am: his view of the world is creating perfect moments. I am a stoic and, people say, a cynic, and I wanted to introduce him to my way of seeing and meditating on a different aspect of life

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