The food, and more drink, relaxes the atmosphere. I stop feeling bitter, and start to feel quite warm towards him. After all, he’s probably lonely, a Brit in the very strange country that the Republic is. For him, this was just calling on an old friend. A chance to catch up and gossip. I chide myself for my mean thoughts that he just wanted to use me as a subject for his research. Nevertheless, as I relax I do find myself opening up about that night. I always tell myself I don’t like talking about it, but actually whenever I do, I find it all quite cathartic. So I give it him all – lock, stock and barrel. He even asks if it’s all right to take some notes, and I say sure, why not?

And then I tell him about my job.

Then I lower my voice and tell him about my cancer, and he’s holding my hand in sympathy and it feels quite nice. I know he means nothing by it, but it brings a little tear to my good eye, and he wipes it away. I only ever cry out of one eye these days. It means I have to use fewer tissues when there’s a soppy film on TV or at the cinema. Although I don’t go to the cinema that often – you just feel such an outcast sitting on your own. It’s like you’re a leper.

So I’m starting to feel a bit maudlin again, but he cheers me up by insisting we share a Schwedenbecher – a Swedish ice-cream sundae – for dessert. To be honest, I could have probably managed a whole one myself, but the act of sharing it with a spoon each is quite intimate.

Before I know what’s really happening, we’re standing outside my front door again. I’m tempted to invite him in, despite the mess. To ask him to stay over to avoid the risk of getting caught drink driving, even though the Vopos are terribly lax about it. But before I can, he’s trying to kiss me goodbye on the cheek, accompanied by a light hug. As he leans in though, I turn my head so the kiss ends up on my lips, and I pull him in for a proper hug.

He feels good.

Really good.

Chapter 33

33

Buckinghamshire, England

July 1981

‘Care to join me for a snifter, Robert?’

‘Don’t mind if I do, old man. What are we celebrating?’

‘How about that great victory at Headingley. Stirring stuff, wasn’t it? That Beefy chap – magnificent. Turned it around all on his own. Margaret is apparently a bit of a fan, and the feeling is mutual. Shouldn’t be surprised if he’s an MP one day. Mind you, he’s perhaps a little uncouth for the Tory party. Not really one of us.’