‘… because it’s the modern personification of the Mithraic, that’s bloody why! It’s an essential expression of man’s relationship with the barbaric divine,’ Bruce said.

‘It’s just disgusting cruelty, the lowest form of blood-lust. They’re all peasants anyway, the Spaniards. They don’t know any better,’ said Celia.

The rest of the table fell silent.

‘But all festivals and rituals need peasants. Bums on seats. You wouldn’t want to be too elitist, would you?’ sneered Bruce.

‘Are you on to bullfighting?’ Nick called down the table. ‘Oh, do let me join in, I love a good fracas.’ He smiled at the history teacher’s wife with a slight flourish, as if he were offering her a nosegay.

‘Bruce thinks it’s fine that they taunt and torture innocent animals,’ said Celia.

‘Well, they’re Roman Catholics. They’re used to blood sacrifice,’ said Bruce.

‘And what do you think?’ Nick asked the history teacher’s wife.

‘God, you’re crass,’ said Celia. It wasn’t clear which of the two men she was addressing.

Georgie stood up and pinged her glass with her spoon. ‘OK everybody, it’s time to cool it. And what better way than with delicious fruit salad chilled in a magic bowl fashioned from our finest Cornish water.’

‘What fun!’ said Carolyn brightly. ‘Let me help clear while you bring it in.’

‘We don’t want any plebs here, do we?’ Bruce shouted.

‘Oh, shut up, Dad! You always have to have the last word,’ Lucy called out. It was the most animated she’d been all evening.

Stephen helped Carolyn clear the main-course plates, while Georgie went out to fetch the pudding.

‘Are you OK?’ Stephen asked Cass in a low voice, when he came to her place.

‘Fine,’ she said, tightly.

Georgie reappeared with the glass bowl on a platter. ‘Quick!’ she called out to no one in particular. ‘It’s so slippery I’m afraid I’m going to drop it.’

The glass bowl was surprisingly large. It was beautiful, the vine leaves and flowers clearly visible through the frozen water. Everyone looked up and stopped talking when they brought it in.

‘Look at that,’ said Stephen. ‘Nice one, Cass.’

‘Nice one, Cyril, nice one, son …’ the history teacher sang, then looked around expectantly, as if he was expecting the others to join in. But no one seemed to recognize the tune.

‘What a lovely thing,’ said his wife. ‘I’ve never seen one of those before.’

‘Lovely,’ echoed Carolyn.

Stephen looked at Hamish, willing him to comment on the bowl, to praise it and by extension the maker of it, but he carried on smoking his Rothman cigarette and said nothing.

Cass said, ‘Shall I bring it round, or leave it on the sideboard, so people can help themselves?’

‘Put it on the side, it’s too slippery to pass,’ said Celia.

There was murmured assent. Everyone’s voices were quieter now.