‘I once married a woman from Swansea,’ says Mervyn Collins. ‘Red hair, the lot.’
‘I see,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Sounds like there’s quite a story there?’
‘A story?’ Mervyn shakes his head. ‘No, we split up. You know women.’
‘We do know them, Mervyn,’ says Joyce, cutting into a Yorkshire pudding. ‘We do.’
Silence. Not, Elizabeth notes, the first silence during this meal.
It is Boxing Day, and the gang, plus Mervyn, are at the Coopers Chase restaurant. They are all wearing colourful paper crowns from the crackers Joyce has brought along. Joyce’s crown is too big and is threatening to become a blindfold at any moment. Ron’s is too small, the pink crêpe paper straining at his temples.
‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you to a drop of wine, Mervyn?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘Alcohol at lunchtime? No,’ says Mervyn.
The gang had spent Christmas Day separately. It had been a difficult one for Elizabeth, she would have to admit that. She had hoped that the day might spark something, give her husband Stephen a burst of life, some clarity, memories of Christmas past fuelling him. But no. Christmas was like any other day for Stephen now. A blank page at the end of an old book. She shudders to think about the year ahead.
They had all arranged to meet for a Boxing Day lunch in the restaurant. At the last minute, Joyce had asked if it might be polite to invite Mervyn to join them. He has been at Coopers Chase a few months and has, thus far, struggled to make friends.
‘He’s all alone this Christmas,’ Joyce had said, and they had agreed that they should ask him. ‘Nice touch,’ Ron had said, and Ibrahim had added that if Coopers Chase was about anything, it was about ensuring that no one should feel lonely at Christmas.
Elizabeth, for her part, applauded Joyce’s generosity of spirit, while noting that Mervyn, in certain lights, had the type of handsome looks that so often left Joyce helpless. The gruff Welshness of his voice, the darkness of his eyebrows, the moustache and that silver hair. Elizabeth more and more is getting the hang of Joyce’s type, and ‘anyone plausibly handsome’ seems to cover it. ‘He looks like a soap-opera villain,’ was Ron’s take, and Elizabeth was happy to accept his word on the matter.
Thus far they have tried to speak to Mervyn about politics (‘not my area’), television (‘no use for it’) and marriage (‘I once married a woman from Swansea’, etc.).
Mervyn’s food arrives. He had resisted the turkey, and the kitchen agreed to make him scampi and boiled potatoes instead.
‘Scampi fan, I see,’ says Ron, pointing to Mervyn’s plate. Elizabeth has to hand it to him, he’s trying to help things along.
‘Wednesdays I have the scampi,’ agrees Mervyn.
‘Is it a Wednesday?’ says Joyce. ‘I always lose track around Christmas. Never know what day it is.’
‘It’s Wednesday,’ confirms Mervyn. ‘Wednesday, the 26th of December.’
‘Did you know that “scampi” is the plural?’ says Ibrahim, his paper crown fashionably askew. ‘Each individual piece is a “scampo”.’
‘I did know that, yes,’ says Mervyn.
Elizabeth has cracked harder nuts than Mervyn over the years. She once had to question a Soviet general who had not uttered a single word in more than three months of captivity, and within the hour he was singing Noël Coward songs with her. Joyce has been working on Mervyn for a few weeks now, since the end of the Bethany Waites case. She has so far gleaned that he has been a headteacher, he has been married, he is on his third dog, and he likes Elton John, but this does not amount to all that much.
Elizabeth decides to take the conversation by the scruff of the neck. Sometimes you have to shock the patient into life.
‘So, our mysterious friend from Swansea aside, Mervyn, how’s your romantic life?’
‘I have a sweetheart,’ says Mervyn.
Elizabeth sees Joyce raise the most subtle of eyebrows.
‘Good for you,’ says Ron. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Tatiana,’ says Mervyn.
‘Beautiful name,’ says Joyce. ‘First I’ve heard of her though?’
‘Where’s she spending Christmas?’ asks Ron.
‘Lithuania,’ says Mervyn.
‘The Jewel of the Baltic,’ says Ibrahim.
‘I’m not sure we’ve seen her at Coopers Chase, have we?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Since you’ve moved in?’
‘They’ve taken her passport,’ says Mervyn.
‘Goodness,’ says Elizabeth. ‘That sounds unfortunate. Who has?’
‘The authorities,’ says Mervyn.
‘Sounds about right,’ says Ron, shaking his head. ‘Bloody authorities.’
‘You must miss her terribly,’ says Ibrahim. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘We haven’t, just as yet, met,’ says Mervyn, scraping tartare sauce off a scampo.
‘You haven’t met?’ asks Joyce. ‘That seems unusual?’
