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heard Kate laughing.

      ‘Why not, Gregor?’ she asked. ‘Susan can afford it.’

      ‘You’re not offended?’

      ‘Heavens, no, not a bit. Won’t I be with you, in spirit? So I’ll be more comfortable too.’

      My Kate, my lovely Kate, my sagacious Kate.

      That evening, while I was grilling chops for my tea, the telephone rang. I thought it might be Susan Cramond, but it was my daughter Jean. She had some last-minute advice for me.

      ‘I’m going to be frank, Dad. I hope you won’t mind. Robert and I are worried. You’re apt to say things that upset people. For instance, you say that the Americans are more of a danger to world peace than the Russians.’

      ‘I say it because I believe it.’

      ‘But you don’t have to say it. Especially in America. Frank may not be as smart as he thinks he is, but he’s very patriotic. Remember, too, Madge is now an American citizen, and her two children, your grandchildren, are born Americans. I know it’s a pose you got into years ago when you were a member of that stupid party the ILP and you’ve never outgrown it. You’ve been a bit of a hypocrite, Dad. You could never have become a headmaster if you’d stuck to your so-called socialist principles, for you must have had to do a lot of string-pulling, and toadying to councillors, and there’s that bungalow of yours worth eighty thousand, and your Mercedes car, and look at the clothes you wear, the best of everything, Pringle pullovers, Daks trousers, Burberry raincoat, and sixty-pound shoes. Good for you. We’d have been the first to complain if you’d worn shabby clothes and a cloth cap and lived in a council house. We’re really proud of you. But be discreet, Dad. Don’t embarrass Madge. She’ll have enough to contend with now that she and Frank have got religion. You won’t have Mum this time to keep you in order. And, for goodness’ sake, stay away from that horrible old woman Mrs Birkenberger. People like her have nothing in common with people like us.’

      Speak for yourself, Jean, I thought. I had quite a lot in common with Linda. She had laughed at my salacious witticisms.

      ‘Have you got everything ready, Dad? Passport. Traveller’s cheques. Air ticket.’

      I could not resist shocking her. ‘I’ll be well looked after, Jean. I’m travelling first class.’

      I heard her shrieking, ‘Good heavens, Robert, he’s travelling first class. But, Dad, first class is enormously expensive.’

      ‘Well worth it, though.’

      ‘How much did it cost?’

      ‘Money and fair words, as your grandmother Liddell used to say.’

      ‘Madge and Frank never travel first class on planes and he’s well up in his bank.’

      ‘Why should it bother you or her? You’re not paying for it.’

      ‘No, but we’ve got a right to save you from extravagance.’

      I heard Robert shouting. Perhaps the length and expense of the call was distressing him.

      ‘Robert says you could get your ticket changed back to economy and get a refund.’

      ‘Dinnae fash, Jean. I paid for an economy-class ticket. A friend generously had it changed to first-class.’

      ‘Some friend! Who is he? Was he at the funeral?’

      ‘She. Mrs Cramond.’

      ‘Is she the lady who lives in the big house at the end of your avenue? Was she at the funeral wearing that fabulous fur coat?’

      ‘The very one.’

      ‘Well, well. She must be rich.’

      ‘She is.’

      ‘I don’t want to be nosy, Dad, but is there something between you and this lady?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Well, she’s old and a widow, and you’re old and a widower. I’m sure Madge and I wouldn’t object, so long as you waited a while.’

      ‘But, Jean, old people cannot afford to wait, can they? Is that Robert having kittens at the cost of this conversation? Pity he doesn’t have a rich admirer to pay his telephone bills. Hasta la vista, as they say in the whorehouses of Tijuana.’

      I half-expected another call but evidently stingy Robert prevailed.

       7

      On the evening of my farewell dinner party I presented myself at the door of Susan’s mansion, early as requested, and wearing a lounge suit, also as requested. It was opened by Mrs Borthwick, waitress in Murchison’s tearoom. There was a smell of sherry off her breath. Her cheeks were rosier than ever. Her ample body exuded warmth and hospitality. What did it matter that her favourite reading was Mills and Boon romances?’

      ‘So you’re off to California, Mr McLeod?’ she said, as she took my hat and raincoat. ‘Aren’t you lucky?’

      ‘Thank you, Mrs Borthwick,’ I said.

      I had often thought of her as mistress material. She was a divorcee. Not very long ago I had given her money to buy a birthday present for her eight-year-old daughter Lenore. Kate hadn’t known.

      ‘And how is Lenore?’ I asked. ‘Getting on well at school, I hope.’

      ‘Oh yes, Mr McLeod. Thank you for asking.’

      It should be remembered that I had two daughters of my own who once had been little children.

      ‘I’ll send her a postcard, if you don’t mind.’

      ‘She’d like that, Mr McLeod, especially if it’s one of Disneyland.’

      When I came back would it be worth-while setting up a liaison with this buxom young woman? But wait, hadn’t I heard that she had been seen at a dance in the Masonic Hall with a big burly bruiser called McCann? Careful, Gregor, I told myself, as I went confidently into Susan’s drawing-room.

      I was pouring myself a dram, malt, £30 a bottle, when my hostess came in.

      ‘Pour me one too, Gregor,’ she said.

      For a woman of 70, she looked remarkably attractive. Money and a lot of time had been expended. Usually, though, she didn’t give a damn how she looked. Had she made herself as womanly as possible for my sake?

      She was wearing a blue dress and sapphire earrings. Her hair was blue too and had recently been permed. Her wrinkles were buried under layers of powder that had a bluish tinge. She smelled of expensive perfume.

      ‘Remember, Gregor, after they’ve all gone I want you to stay behind. There’s something I want to say to you.’

      ‘By all means, Susan.’ But I felt alarmed. What the hell was she up to? What did she want in return for that ticket?

      The guests began to arrive. Henry Sneddon had to be cleeked from the car. There was dribble on his chin. ‘I see we’ve got Mrs Borthwick attending us, Gregor. Gregor fancies her, you know. He pats her bottom.’ Luckily, Henry’s croakings were never heeded.

      Considering that the combined ages of the guests were close to 1000 years, and their ailments and decrepitudes were numerous and comprehensive, the party did not turn out to be as dreary as our hostess had feared. To be fair to Susan, she helped make it a success by providing good food, mostly of a kind suitable for false or shoogly teeth, and plenty of excellent wine. With all that assortment of worn-out bladders and dodgy prostates, it wasn’t surprising that there was a steady leaving of the table for short periods. Henry Sneddon had to leave twice, with Helen assisting him. Luckily he made it both times without mishap.

      If I seem to make fun of old Henry, I apologise. His was a painful as well as a discomfiting malady.

      The

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