Lounging in bed, soaking in his familiar surroundings, has been pleasant. So has not standing over the bath for morning dips, or practising piano before breakfast. William often feels drowsy on sugar and so much warmth and comfort. He sloughed off the chorister boarder easily and settled back into his old self, eating as much as he wants, cuddling up on the sofa with Evelyn and a story book, even though he is too old. The knowledge of how happy he makes her, just by breathing and being close to her, drapes over his shoulders again like a warm, heavy cloak. There are moments, however, in their cosy flat when he feels a little trapped. When his mother’s loving eyes on his face are too much. Too caring. Too intense. There are moments when he misses the bracing discipline of his life in Cambridge; the independence of only thinking about himself, the busyness of not having a spare minute to lounge around and wonder what to do next. Late in the dark afternoons, his overfed body sometimes aches for the brisk walk through the college grounds and into his beautiful chapel.

22

He must have fallen asleep. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers have disappeared. Something else is on now, but he can’t work out what it is. Evelyn is in the kitchen. Without moving a muscle, he knows.

It’s Boxing Day, and as usual, Uncle Robert and Howard are coming for tea, and as a result, Evelyn is in a bad mood. He can tell by the chink of cutlery on ceramic, the slosh of water in a mixing bowl, the shriek of a baking tray being pulled from the oven.

William is never hungry when they have posh tea because he will have been in the kitchen, helping. It’s their joke. ‘William, can you help me with the washing up?’ Evelyn says, handing him a mixing bowl, or a whisk, or a spoon covered in something raw and sweet.

Sitting up on the sofa now, his bare feet touching the carpet, he feels guilty. If he’d wanted to, he could have been a real help this year, spreading the marge and fish paste, spearing the cheese and pineapple cubes with cocktail sticks, sprinkling the trifle with hundreds and thousands. But he didn’t want to be in the kitchen, wary of what Boxing Day does to his mum. He’s tired and irritable, and thinks how nice it would be if he could trust her to make Uncle Robert and Howard feel welcome. Instead of trying to jolly her along with jokes and helpfulness, William walks into the kitchen on the offensive.

‘Mum?’

‘Yes?’ She doesn’t turn from the sink where she’s scrubbing burned bits off the baking tray.

William sits at the stool in the corner. ‘Was there a memorial service for Dad?’

‘A what?’

‘A memorial service.’

‘No.’ She continues to scrub, her whole body vibrating.