Ellie rises elegantly, moves to me — all eyes round the table and quite a few throughout the room on her now — and leans in, one hand lightly on my wrist, to touch cheeks. ‘Double kiss,’ she whispers on that first pass, so we do the continental double-kiss thing. I have no idea what the hell this signifies in the Murston family bestiary of acceptable greetings and other physical gestures: just not being marked out for imminent execution after an overnight change of heart, I hope.
‘Very sorry about Joe,’ I mumble, which is the best I can do.
She nods and smiles a little and sits down again, smoothing her skirt under her. I think I see Grier sort of gathering herself to maybe get up too, but Ellie leans over to her just then and says something to her. Looks light, inconsequential — El pats her little sister’s hand gently, affectionately — but…good timing there, girl, I think, if that was deliberate.
Dad seems to be addressing the whole table now. ‘I’m sorry Morven — that’s my wife’ — he explains for the benefit of the farflung rellies — ‘couldn’t take any more time off after the funeral, but we all’ — he extends one arm a fraction to include me here — ‘want you to know we’re very sorry for your loss. A good man gone, and he’ll be sorely missed.’
Al nods a couple of times, then nods once more to Donald, who nods back, and we’re out of there at last, turning as one and heading away from this uncannily calm eye of the room.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.
‘I better get back to work,’ Al tells me, near the doors. He holds my elbow briefly. ‘You take it easy, chief, okay?’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’
‘No. Seriously, son.’
‘Seriously aye-aye, Dad. I’ll be fine.’
‘Aye, well, get some food down you and don’t stay too long.’
‘Will do, Pop.’
Dad gives me a very slightly dubious look, then departs.
Ferg is loitering by the end of the buffet table, filling his face and eyeing the desserts. I lift a sticky cocktail sausage from his plate.
‘Get your own, you freeloading bastard, Gilmour.’
‘Intend to.’ I inspect the sausage, eat a chunk and put it back on his plate. ‘But then we should get drunk.’
‘Back on-message at last. About time.’ He nods at the half-eaten sausage. ‘I’m still going to eat that, you know.’
I’m sitting minding my own business and tucking into my own plateful of food five minutes later at a half-empty table — I don’t recognise the other people — when a jolly-looking, well-upholstered lady with frizzy grey hair and wearing a dark-plum suit sits down beside me. Another half-remembered face.
‘Stewart, how you doing? You probably don’t remember me. Joan Linton. How you doing yourself, son? Oh, it’s awful good to see you again, so it is. Is it London you’ve been away to all this time? Aye? London? Aye? I’m sorry, here I am, blabbering away to you and you trying to get some food down you, I know; what am I like? A couple of Bristol Creams and I’m yacking away fifteen to the dozen. It’s that good food, though, isn’t it? D’you not think so? Wait till you try the desserts. Oh my God! I’ve had seconds, twice. I’ll be bursting out of this dress, I will! No, but, seriously, it’s a lovely send-off, is it no? They’ve done the old guy proud. Not think so? I didn’t really know old Joe that well, to be honest, but you can’t know everybody, can you?’
I’ve been waving my hand at my face during all this, trying to indicate that the only thing stopping me from answering — or at least attempting to interrupt — is the fact that I’ve got a mouth full of food, which I have, though this has also been a good way of giving myself time to try to remember who Mrs Linton actually is. How do I know her?
‘Mrs L,’ I say, swallowing. ‘Course. Was meaning to come over and say hi,’ I lie. ‘How are you?’
