In Brisbane, all my friends were asleep, fans next to their beds ticking and shuddering as they rotated, swirling warm air around the room. Across Teddington, my new classmates, half of whom I didn’t know by name, some of whom I’d already forgotten since Friday, were in their own versions of this cold wet Christmas, but not in this room with its fire, its champagne, its gold half-guinea, my father and George, clinking glasses, toasting something, nodding in fierce agreement.

It was twilight by the time we finished pudding and moved back to the sitting room, crackers pulled, paper crowns on our heads. My father insisted that he and I wash the dishes and he made me drink two glasses of water while we did it. George fussed around behind us making coffee in a tall ceramic pot.

‘Let’s go, you two,’ he said once it was ready. ‘You’re doing a marvellous job, but I think we could all do with a nice cup of coffee.’

I put down the tea towel. He had set the pot on a tray, along with cups and saucers, and the After Eights we had brought slotted into a silver toast rack, each one still in its black paper sleeve.

The coffee was strong, with a muddy texture I could feel on my teeth. No-one else seemed to notice that. I added enough sugar to make it sweet and drank it until there was nothing but a slick of sludge left. The champagne was still kicking around in me and soon the coffee was too. I was stuck in a haze, but twitchy at the same time.

George brought out a box of cigars, and he, my father, my mother and Capability each smoked one, sitting around the coffee table, leaning forward to tap their ash into a large crystal ashtray. Michael built a cushion fort under the piano, and fell asleep in it.

‘I don’t know the form here, Capability,’ my father said, sitting low in an armchair, his cigar butt resting on the edge of the ashtray, ‘but do you work exclusively for George or . . . We’re not exactly experts on the subject of British gardens. I think Margot would appreciate a bit of help from time to time.’

My mother blew smoke towards the fireplace. ‘Yes. Yes, that’d be great.’

‘I’d be very happy to assist,’ Capability told them. ‘I already have one or two ideas. The right prunin’ soon will set you up nicely for good regrowth in the spring.’

When the final cigar, my mother’s, was stubbed out in the ashtray, George said, ‘Now, you were lovely to bring things for me,’ looking in turn at my mother, my father and me. ‘I have a little something for each of you, too. If you’ll just excuse us for a moment.’