'Mister Barrett?'
'Yes.'
His voice is deeper than on any recordings, more cockneyfied than on the TV interviews he gave in 67. Behind him, the hall is clean but bare, the floorboards mostly covered in linoleum. I mention someone dear to him, from his childhood. She'd be coming to Cambridge in a couple of weeks, and wondered if Barrett might like a visit?
'No.'
He stands and stares, less embarrassed than me by the vision of him in his underpants.
'So is everything all right?'
'Yeah.'
'You're still painting?'
'No, I'm not doing anything,' he says (which is true - he's talking to me). 'I'm just looking after this place for the moment.'
'For the moment? Are you thinking of moving on?'
'Well, I'm not going to stay here for ever.' He pauses a split second, delivers an unexpected 'Bye-bye', and slams the door.
I'm left like others before me, trying to work out just what he meant. 'I'm not going to stay here for ever.' Does he just mean, 'One day, I might move house.' Or is it a nod to the fate that awaits us all? A coded message that he may re-emerge into the world - perhaps show new work or perform? And is opening the door in your underpants an unwitting demonstration of self-confidence, or an eccentricity, or worse? I retrace my steps, cross the main road to my car where I write a note that I hope is tactful: 'Dear Mr Barrett, I'm sorry to have disturbed your sunbathing. I didn't have time to mention that I'm writing a book on you...' I plead my case, give my telephone number, and return down the cracked pavement.
As I reach the gate, I see him weeding in the front corner of the garden, on his knees.
'Hi,' I say. 'I've written you a note.'
'Huh,' he says, not looking up, throwing roots behind him.
'May I leave it?' He straightens and stares into my eyes, but doesn't answer. He's wearing khaki shorts now, and gardening gloves, which aren't really suited to receiving the note - and I would be tempting fate to rest it on the side of the wheelbarrow which he has bought with him.
'Shall I put it through the letterbox?'
'It's nothing to do with me,' he says. So I do.
'Nice day,' I say, on leaving. 'Goodbye.'
He doesn't reply, and I never hear from him.