A Spot Of Bother

138

George had lost the thread somewhat.

The dessert wine had not sharpened his mind. He had been a good deal more emotional than he had intended. He had mentioned the cancer, which was not festive. Was it possible that he had made a fool of himself?

It seemed best to round off his speech as quickly and elegantly as he could.

He turned to Katie and took her hand. Jacob was dozing on her lap, so the gesture was a little clumsier than he had planned. It would have to do.

“My lovely daughter. My lovely, lovely daughter.” What was he trying to say, precisely? “You and Ray and Jacob. Never. Never take one another for granted.”

That was better.

He let go of Katie’s hand and glanced round the marquee for one final time before taking his seat and caught sight of David Symmonds sitting in the far corner. The man had been facing the other way during the meal. Consequently George had been spared the sight of him while he was eating.

It occurred to George not only that he might have made a fool of himself but that he might have done this while David Symmonds was watching.

“Dad?” said Katie, touching his arm.

George was frozen halfway between sitting and standing.

The man looked so self-satisfied, so healthy, so bloody dapper.

The images started to come back. The ones he had tried not to picture for so long. The man’s saggy buttocks going up and down in the half-light of the bedroom. The sinews in his legs. That chickeny scrotum.

“Dad?” asked Katie.

George could bear it no longer.