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Mr Taylor came out of the study with a painting and held it up for everyone to see. It was small enough for him to lift with one hand, a white canvas on which thin black brushstrokes had created the outline of a woman’s sad face. It was as delicate as a web, thought Danny; as if a rain shower could wash it all away.

‘Well,’ said Mr Taylor, ‘what do we think?’

Mrs Taylor was shaking her head. ‘I’d much prefer a Streeton or a McCubbin for my seventy-fifth,’ she sighed.

‘So would I, dear, but Mama wouldn’t.’

Emma and Siobhan both spoke, Emma first but Siobhan’s echo following almost simultaneously. ‘It’s perfect! Joy Hester is perfect for Nanna.’

‘Thirty-five thousand,’ Martin whispered, his breath warm against Danny’s ear. ‘Can you believe they paid thirty-five thousand for that shit?’

The arrival of the old lady stopped everyone in their tracks. The adults all looked nervous; even the kids fell quiet. ‘Turn off the video, please,’ Mrs Taylor called out, her voice now sounding high and strained. All the adults, and Martin, Emma and their cousins were standing, and Danny thought, God, it is like we are waiting to see the Queen. He too was on his feet, a little agitated, his eyes darting from Martin to Emma to their father, then their mother; Mrs Taylor had her hand lightly touching her throat, as if the old lady were an executioner, as if the old lady might announce, Off with her head. One of the mothers hissed to the smaller kids, ‘Get up, get up now,’ and then the old lady was in the doorway, the youngest uncle behind her. His hair was as fair and neat as Martin’s and Mr Taylor’s, but he wasn’t wearing a tie; he had on a t-shirt with a picture of some woman Danny thought he should recognise, some singer from the punk era, he was sure of it, knew Demet would love her. The old lady didn’t look anything like the Queen. Her youngest son supported her arm but she moved confidently, upright, thin, petite, like a little bird, thought Danny, in a plum-coloured short-sleeved dress that fell just above her knees. Her skin was stretched over the bones of her jaw, and her cheekbones were almost level with the plane of her eyes. Her earrings were huge pearls, her bracelets sparkled, one silver, one ruby and another gold. Mr Taylor approached her and she offered him her cheeks to kiss, one then the other, but apart from lips to skin, their bodies didn’t touch at all.

‘Happy birthday, Mother.’

‘Thank you, Simon.’ Her eyes, unlike the fragile rice paper of her skin, were dark and alive and took everything in; vivid and shining, they rested on Danny for a moment, and then swept across the room. ‘Go say hello to Nanna,’ one of the mothers urged, and the children lined up to receive their kisses on the cheek, one, two, one, two; then it was Emma’s and Martin’s turn, Vincent’s and Siobhan’s, and then she kissed the adults — except, Danny noticed, she didn’t actually kiss the wives of her sons, or the husband of her daughter. In their case, she kissed the air instead, and then pulled back.

Danny was left standing alone in a corner of the room.

‘Who is this?’ the old lady demanded.

‘Nanna, this is my friend, Danny Kelly,’ said Martin. ‘We go to school together.’

The old woman waved him over. Danny approached and held out his hand. She took it, but dropped it almost immediately.

‘Are you Eric Kelly’s son?’

‘No, I’m Neal Kelly’s son.’

‘Who?’ The old woman looked faintly annoyed.

‘We don’t know them, Mother.’ Mrs Taylor stepped in, her voice still avian and tight, as though her windpipe had been elongated. Danny recalled the frog they’d dissected in biology, the intricate raw tubing of the amphibian’s intestines being stretched until they tore. ‘Danny is Martin’s swimming companion.’

Mr Taylor’s youngest brother was grinning at Danny. ‘I’m Alex,’ he said, holding out his hand from behind his mother. Danny took it; the grip this time was firm and it was Danny who let go first. Alex winked at him and then put an arm around his mother’s shoulders. ‘I’m dying for a drink,’ he announced. ‘What would you like, Mother?’

‘A G and T, of course, Alex.’ She turned towards Mrs Taylor but didn’t look at her. ‘I hope you have Bombay Sapphire.’

If Mrs Taylor’s face were to freeze at that moment, thought Danny, if the wind were to change, then Mrs Taylor’s face would be forever on the cusp of a pain so extreme that it seemed about to burst and like a plate landing on a hard floor, smashing and splintering and exploding into a million pieces. He looked away, embarrassed by such obvious misery.

In one swift feline drop, the old woman sat on the arm of an armchair; a graceful stretch and her bag was on the floor; another sudden turn and one leg was folded over the other. Danny could not believe how clear and taut and smooth her legs were under the pale silk stockings: no veins, no flab, no scars, they were not old legs at all. He had to look away, the old woman had seen him looking.

‘So, are we having a drink or not?’

‘Mother, I am so sorry. We only have Beefeater in the house at the moment.’ Mrs Taylor’s voice was a screech.

‘Oh, Samantha, and you know it’s my birthday!’ The old woman snapped her fingers and Alex was immediately at her side.

‘What can I do for you, Mother?’

‘Do you mind driving into town, darling?’

‘Of course not.’

Danny sensed that the youngest brother had just won something, and that every other adult there had lost.

‘If you can’t manage a gin for me, Samantha, could you manage a nip of whiskey? But something more palatable than your usual Johnnie Walker Black. A single malt, but a good one, it has to be a good one.’

Danny looked up and the old woman was staring straight at him.

It took till the first course for him to understand. She held the money. That was why they were all scared of her, why all the children were on their best behaviour, why the siblings didn’t bicker. Just before they all sat at the dining table — polished white plates, gleaming silver cutlery, all set and arranged by two women from the peninsula who scurried in and out of the kitchen, preparing, cooking, serving, refusing to look Danny in the eye, to look anyone in the eye — Virginia, a university friend of Emma’s, arrived. Virginia was seated next to Danny, but ignored him. She kept asking questions of the grandmother. ‘Emma tells me you practised law in London just after World War Two. That must have been extremely fascinating.’

The old woman dabbed a spot of soup from the corner of her mouth, took a sip of her wine and scowled at her niece. Emma was looking down at the napkin across her knees. Swiftly Danny unfolded his own napkin, forgotten at the side of his plate. He draped it over his lap.

‘London was devastated by the war. I think that only the obtuse describe the experience as fascinating.’

Ob-tuse. She said it with a soft breath caressing the second vowel. Ob-teuse. Danny’s lips silently moved and played with the new word.

Virginia’s thick-lensed glasses made her eyes appear bulbous, reminding Danny of the bulging eyes of snapper lying on blocks of ice at the Preston Market; they always made him feel that the last knowledge they had gleaned just before death was of desperate futility. Virginia seemed desperate too, like everybody else at the table, even Martin, who was silent apart from Yes, please and Thank you and It’s lovely. Danny didn’t feel desperate and he didn’t know why Virginia seemed so eager to please. She wasn’t going to get any money from the old woman.