He laughed. “Well, I suppose I could go for a glass of red, right enough,” he said.
“Red what?” I said. “Wine, Eleanor. Merlot, I think—whatever was on special at Tesco this week.”
“Ah, Tesco,” I said. “In that case... I think I’ll join you. Just the one, though,” I said.
I didn’t want Raymond to think I was a dipsomaniac. He came back with two glasses and a bottle with a screw cap.
“I thought wine had corks?” I said. He ignored me. “To Sammy,” he said, and we clinked glasses like people do on television.
It tasted of warmth and velvet, and a little bit like burned jam.
“Take it easy now!” he said, waggling his finger in a way I recognized was supposed to be humorous.
“I don’t want you falling off the sofa!” I smiled. “How was your afternoon?” I asked, after another delicious sip.
He took a very big swig. “You mean apart from rescuing you from the clutches of a pervert?” he said.
I had no idea what he was talking about. “Och, the afternoon was fine,” he said, when it became clear I didn’t know how to respond.
It all went off as well as these things can. It’ll be tomorrow that it really hits them.
The funeral’s a big distraction; you keep busy with all the arrangements, stupid decisions about scones or biscuits, hymns—
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