To record your father’s sad death, you know, Perry dear. And it occurs to me that we have entries to mark up about you too, isn’t that right?’So: I was helping them; I had paid my subscription. I sipped my sherry (which was wine-seller’s bulk, the sort of thing I drank at home, but decidedly not what used to be drunk in this house) and did my best to respond in friendly kind.‘That’s right, Aunt Sybilla. I am married, and we have a son. But at the moment we are —’‘Oh dear—not separated?’‘Only physically. My wife is doing a degree at Newcastle, and our little boy is with her because my working hours are so unpredictable.’‘Really?’ Aunt Sybilla’s voice resumed some of its usual vinegarish tone. ‘A policeman with a wife doing a degree! Quite original. What is it in—something worthy, and socially relevant, I suppose? Like economics, or sociology?’‘Arabic,’ I said.Even Aunt Sybilla could make nothing of Arabic, and she retired for the moment defeated.Not all the family had arrived yet.
