They drank and ate nuts and opened presents. Frances gave Harry an electric juice squeezer that he’d said he wanted. Mrs Kitson gave Harry a ship in a bottle that she’d found in a junk shop. She had knitted for Frances, laboriously with her arthritis, a shocking pink jersey with a yellow cat on it, taken from a pattern. The cat was slightly crooked but it was bright and jolly and Frances put it on. Frances had given her mother a portable phone – you can even take it to the lavatory – and they bent over it, to show her how to work it. Harry gave Frances a yellow silk dress like the one Milton Werner had torn, she gasped when she opened it, and kissed him. Mrs Kitson kept stroking the fake-fur stole, I do like this Harry, she said.

She made them watch the Queen’s speech, as usual.

At the table they pulled crackers, put on hats, ate turkey.

‘You know – I don’t like turkey really,’ Mrs Kitson said.

‘But it’s Christmas Mum. Look it’s snowing outside, we’re having a White Christmas like everyone always hopes for, “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” etc, you’ve got to have turkey!’

‘Yes dear but I don’t like turkey, I can’t taste it, it feels like I’m chewing something – you know –’ she searched for the word ‘– anonymous.’

‘You should’ve said last year.’

‘Emmy Lou cooked roast pork with apple sauce last year, because I said it the year before.’

Harry and Frances looked at her in amazement.

‘So she did,’ said Harry, ‘I’d forgotten.’

‘Don’t worry dear, I forget almost everything,’ said Mrs Kitson. ‘I’m always forgetting people’s names, you’re lucky I remember yours, I forget the vicar’s name even, even though he calls so often, so I just call him Father even though he’s a Baptist. You know he wants my money, I say to him Father Vicar you can come all you like and I’ll make you a cup of tea but the Church won’t get anything. You read about them you know, and doctors. And dentists,’ she added crossly, shooting a look at her daughter. ‘They don’t fool me.’

‘I think he comes so often because you entertain him.’

‘He doesn’t fool me,’ repeated Mrs Kitson, ‘even when I can’t remember his name, actually I think he’s lonely the way he turns up week after week, I don’t think there are many Baptists left in the world, they’ve all died. Funny life, being a vicar. ‘

And then she surprised them again.