‘Yes, of course.’ He took the soldier, set it back in its spot and closed the cabinet door. ‘Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask – do you and your family have plans for Christmas?’

‘I don’t know.’ We hadn’t talked about it. ‘My father has his work Christmas party tonight, but I don’t know about the day itself. I don’t think so.’

‘Perfect.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Then you can all help me with a problem I have. One of my own making. Let me just . . .’

He slid open one of the desk drawers and took out a fountain pen and a sheet of thick letter paper.

‘I made my pudding weeks ago and it’s enormous,’ he said as he wrote. ‘Far too big for just Capability, Mrs Keene and me. It calls for the appetite of a growing boy, a family. It would be so helpful if you all came over, otherwise I’ll be gorging on pudding for weeks.’

He handed me the sheet of paper. It had a texture I could feel but barely see. His address was printed at the top, in small black letters. Below, he had written:

George Lascelles
requests the pleasure of the company of
the O’Connell family
at Christmas dinner
from midday on Christmas Day, 1978

The next morning, my father appeared last for breakfast, in his singlet and stripey pyjama bottoms, with his hair wet at the front and stuck to his forehead. Michael ran over and tackled him around the knees. Our father let out an ‘oof’ sound, hoisted Michael into the air and placed him on his shoulders, sliding his hands down to grip both of Michael’s ankles.

Michael laughed and grabbed at strands of unstuck hair with both hands and shouted, ‘Horsie!’

My father’s face went red and a vein bulged on his forehead. He breathed out noisily and steadied himself.

‘Horsie’s making a slow start today, mate,’ he said. He reached a hand up and gave Michael’s knee a squeeze.

He did one sluggish lap of the room before setting Michael down and going to make coffee.

He was halfway through drinking it, sitting opposite me, when my mother set the invitation from George in front of him.

‘Simon brought this home from next door,’ she said. ‘He wants to do it, and I don’t see why not.’

He scowled at the sheet of paper, as if the words weren’t making complete sense. He picked it up and held it at arm’s length.

‘I thought we’d just be doing something here,’ he said. ‘Why would we . . .’ He stalled there, closed his mouth and swallowed.