Thorn Inn in Mistley. He’s meant to haunt it, you know?’
‘Hopkins?’
Amelia winked at me. ‘Oh yes. Apparently he’s been seen sitting on a chair in the attic and another one of the rooms. They like to play it down but people talk. And we all love a good ghost story don’t we?’
In the context of the previous few days it was the last thing I loved right now. But I was courteous in my response. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That’s all very interesting.’
‘Here,’ she said, reaching into a bag at her feet. ‘Call me if you decide to pop over.’
We exchanged numbers and were depositing phones back into handbags when Janet came over and the conversation dwindled to more domestic subjects.
At some point I was dragged off to play cricket with Lettice and Lucy who were in fine spirits and ran circles round me in my semi-inebriated state.
‘Why is Aunty Mercedes wobbling?’ I heard Lucy ask as I was getting a good innings in.
‘Because she needs another drink,’ said an older male voice. It was cousin Ian, grinning from the sidelines, a champagne flute in either hand. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Refreshments.’
Somehow it had got to five o’clock and almost immediately we were called into the living room to watch Uncle Roger open his presents. As it turned out he loved the photo. Bloody good job too, I thought. I would have done my nut if it had been passed over without comment.
There were a couple of speeches and numerous toasts and before I knew it I was going way way way over the legal limit and agreeing to stay.
When that had all settled down Ian and I went outside and sat on the swing chair. It was good to see him.
‘Roger seems well,’ I commented after we’d caught up on romantic attachments (his), careers (mine) and Mum’s funeral. ‘The way Janet was talking I thought he’d be at death’s door.’
Ian shook his head. ‘No, he’s looking all right now, but his kidney is on the way out.’
‘Really?’ I kicked my feet up and pushed the swing back. ‘So what’s the prognosis?’
‘Well, he’s only got one left so I guess, traditionally, it would be a transplant …’
‘So why doesn’t he get one?’
Ian’s face had a very solid look to it. He was always the very essence of calm benevolence. ‘You can’t buy them at the supermarket,’ he said gently, as if breaking bad news to a child.
I was going to protest that people like Roger went on forever, but Dad was marching over the lawn towards us.
‘Come on you two. Roger’s leaving. Come and say goodbye.’
The swinging had made me feel a little sick anyway. So we got up and staggered into the house, through to the hallway where there was a queue of well-wishers bidding farewell. Roger was halfway out the front door, his face flushed, his eyes bright and watery. He was having a great day.
I was quite pissed by now and an unexpected wave of compassion flooded through me.
Ian and I pushed through to Uncle Roger. Ian shook his hand and I, filled to the brim with bonhomie and bubbles, threw my arms around him and slopped a kiss on his cheek. ‘Uncle Roger, it’s been great to see you. Happy birthday. And listen, I know you’re poorly and I’ve thought about it and I would be happy to give you my kidney if you want it. No really. Yes.’
Roger took a little gasp of air. Then he broke into a broad smile. ‘Oh Mercedes, that is kind of you. But the photograph will do just fine.’
He leant forwards and stroked my cheek. It was an affectionate gesture but at the time I was full of drunken passion and determined to donate a vital organ.
‘No,’ I said tersely. ‘I mean it.’
Roger sighed. Then he said rather quickly, ‘You keep it. It wouldn’t do any good.’
I smiled and said, ‘Go on. You don’t know till you’ve tried. Have it. It can be your Christmas present.’
He reached down and grabbed my hand. ‘You don’t know how much that means to me, Mercedes. Thank you. But we wouldn’t be a match, my dear. Take it from me, I know.’
Dad had come up from behind, clearly embarrassed by the turn the conversation had taken.
He patted my shoulder and prised my arm from his brother’s. ‘Mercedes, your uncle is very tired. Stop bothering him. Ian, will you take her back into the party? She’s had a bit too much –’