‘Oh, lovely.’ The cellophane wrap crinkled as he took the box. ‘After-dinner mints. What a treat. What a lovely Christmas this is going to be.’

As he led us down the hall to the sitting room, Mrs Keene came out of the kitchen wearing a bright-red apron with cartoon figures on it. It was only after George had introduced her to my parents that I realised the apron design was the twelve days of Christmas, with twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping and all the rest.

Capability was crouched at the fireplace, moving logs around with a poker, and he stood to introduce himself to my father. He was wearing a white collared shirt and a red waistcoat with Christmas trees on it. My family was still bunched up at the entrance to the room, Michael pressed against our mother, who had a hand on his shoulder.

George went to put a record on.

‘Nothing Australian, I’m afraid,’ he said, as he sorted through the Christmas LPs he had placed on top of the shelves, next to the record player. Boney M’s ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ had hung on to be the Christmas number one, but I knew that wouldn’t be in George’s pile. ‘The only Australian Christmas song I know is “Six White Boomers”, and I don’t seem to have that.’

‘That’s quite a piano you’ve got,’ my father said. The lid was open and the music I had noticed on the seat had been tidied away.

‘Thank you.’ George was still on his knees, reading the song list on the back of an album cover. ‘Do you play?’

‘Ah, no.’ My father shrugged. ‘It just looks like an impressive piano.’

‘Well, that’s very nice of you to say.’ George settled on a record and placed it on the turntable. He showed us the cover, which had the words Edward Heath Carols above a medieval painting of two angels holding a scroll. ‘Mister Heath, Mrs Keene,’ he called out. Mrs Keene had gone back into the kitchen. ‘Brace yourself!’ He closed the lid and stood up. ‘We have to give Mrs Keene a Tory warning. Can’t go surprising her with this sort of thing.’

‘Ted Heath was the Conservative Party prime minister a few years ago,’ my father said to me.

I wanted to tell him I knew that, but it didn’t seem worth it.

‘Refreshments,’ George said, rubbing his hands together and striding towards the kitchen.

Capability went back to sorting out the fire. My parents looked around the room, taking it all in.

‘Her dress got pulled down,’ Michael said, pointing to the Romney with the exposed breast.

‘Yes,’ our mother said, hands on both his shoulders, steering him away from it. ‘It’s art. What a nice fire Capability’s got going.’

My father kept staring at the painting until George came back in with a champagne bottle and a tray of glasses.