‘Unity Hall.’ She smiled. Unity Hall wrote an advice column in News of the World. ‘I’ll write the reply and you and Simon can post it through his door when you go out.’

It rained all Christmas morning and we ran next door under three umbrellas, my mother with Michael on her hip. As well as discussing the gift and how to reply to the invitation, we had worked through our clothing choices. It was lunch, the invitation was formal and third person, it was next door, it was Christmas. It was England, and all we could do was guess. My father wore a suit, but not a dinner suit. My mother settled on the best dress she had brought from Australia – a Prue Acton design she had worn to the gala announcement of Miss Queensland 1978 – and a suede jacket with fur trim bought on a recent trip into London. I borrowed a tie of my father’s that went well enough with my best jacket. Michael wore a red knitted tie and a jumper with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on the front.

We rang George’s bell and crowded the porch as the rain came in on our feet.

‘Welcome, welcome,’ he said breezily as he swung the door open. He had a sprig of holly on the lapel of his green blazer and he was wearing a bright-red cravat that featured Santas chasing reindeers. ‘Merry Christmas. Let’s get you out of that rotten rain.’

Mrs Keene was waiting to take our umbrellas and put them in the nearby stand. The cloakroom door was open. The hall was less cold than usual. A fire was lit somewhere inside the house. I could smell it, and turkey roasting.

‘No coats, I see,’ George said. ‘Very wise when you’re only making a one-minute dash to be here. Come in. Come properly in.’ He waved his hand to usher us further along the hall. ‘And don’t you all look a picture. Lovely.’ He crouched down in front of Michael. ‘There you are with Rudolph on your jersey, and here am I with Father Christmas everywhere, rounding up his reindeer to go all over the world giving gifts to children.’

He pointed to the Santas on his cravat. Michael wasn’t sure what to make of it.

As George stood up, my father said, ‘Merry Christmas,’ holding the bottle of Penfold’s Club Port out in both hands.

‘Oh, marvellous, marvellous.’ George accepted the bottle, also with both hands, giving a small nod as he took it. He turned it around to read the label. The name was in white, in a ye-olde typeface, against a grey background. I wanted him to see that it was 1953, vintage, but that was on a smaller label near the neck. ‘And all the way from Australia, too. How apt.’

‘And these, too,’ I said, offering him the box of Rowntree’s After Eights. ‘Merry Christmas.’