came out of the drawing room when she heard me in the hall and said something. She didn’t smile. I said, ‘What? Just a minute,’ and put in my hearing aid. She said: ‘Your father’s been on the phone several times. I don’t know what he’s on about, but he sounds upset.’
I went into my study and called Dad. He answered immediately, as if he was sitting next to the phone. ‘Hallo, who’s that?’ he said in a loud angry tone.
‘It’s Desmond, Dad,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘What’s the matter? I want to know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘I’ve been dumped here, all on my own. That bloke who drove me down here just buggered off without a word of goodbye.’
‘That bloke was me, Dad,’ I said. ‘And I had a cup tea with you before I left.’
‘What d’you mean, it was you? I’m talking about the bloke who lives up north. He has a huge house with four lavs, and curtains that open and close on their own, like a cinema. And a posh wife, called Fred for some reason, and a horde of relatives. He drove me down here, and hardly said a word the whole way.’
‘That’s me, Dad,’ I said. ‘I live up north and I have a big house and a wife called Fred. It’s short for Winifred. She gave you some turkey and ham to take home.’
‘That’s true,’ he said after a pause. ‘I’ve just had some for my tea.’ His tone was troubled. ‘So it was you.’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s the matter with me then?’
‘It’s because you’ve been away for a few days, and now you’re back home, you’re a little bit confused. It’s nothing to worry about.’
But it is.
29th December. Cecilia left today. Fred and I took her to the station and put her on the train to Durham. She’s gone to stay with her eldest son and his wife, who live there; she usually spends Christmas with us and New Year with them. So Fred and I are alone at last. I was looking forward to a quiet weekend, apart from a few hours of deafened socialising at a neighbour’s New Year’s Eve party which we always go to, arriving late and sloping off soon after the compulsory kissing and oldlangsyning, but Jakki and Lionel have invited us to join them at a place called Gladeworld. Apparently it’s an up-market holiday camp in a forest, about sixty miles from here. They were planning to spend the New Year holiday there with Lionel’s brother and his wife, but Lionel’s brother is ill in bed with bronchitis and a temperature, so they had to drop out at the last moment, and Jakki asked Fred if we would like to come in their place. Fred relayed Jakki’s description to me: ‘You stay in little chalets scattered among the trees. She says they’re very comfortable, and they’ve booked an executive chalet which is extra-luxurious. En suite bathrooms and so on. You can either cater for yourselves or eat at one of the restaurants. There’s a heated indoor swimming pool under a huge plastic dome with artificial waves and rapids and palm trees, and a spa, and an indoor sports hall and so on. There are no cars: you leave your car in the car park and everybody rents bikes or walks.’
‘It sounds ghastly,’ I said.
‘Well I think it sounds rather fun,’ said Fred. ‘It’s enormously popular - Jakki says you have to book up months ahead. It’s very nice of her and Lionel to think of asking us.’
‘Would we be paying for ourselves?’ I asked.
‘Well of course we’d pay our share.’
I asked her how much, and she named a sum which I thought rather steep. ‘So really we’d be doing them a favour, or Lionel’s brother a favour, rather than the other way round?’ I said.
Fred dismissed this comment with a contemptuous toss of the head. ‘You’re always complaining about how you hate New Year’s Eve, almost as much as you hate Christmas - well, here’s your chance to get away for it, do something different,’ she said. ‘A little exercise, some fresh air, a lot of relaxation. It would do us both good.’
‘Cooped up with Jakki and Lionel for three days?’
‘Jakki is my friend, and Lionel is perfectly pleasant. And we don’t have to do everything together all the time. And it’s only two full days. And anyway,’ Fred concluded, ‘if you won’t go, I’ll go on my own.’