Richard
James stirs his bean and sausage concoction. It’s bubbling, smelling good. Then, heading for the larder, he returns with olive oil, eggs and garlic. Elizabeth and Charlotte sit together with Mitch, and I exchange chit-chat with Michael.
Humming to himself, James cracks a garlic bulb into its cloves, smashing each one with the flat of his knife onto a wooden board. Skin picked out, the pulp goes into his mortar. Pestle in hand, he’s just starting to grind when the front-door knocker raps.
James turns as though to make to head for the door, but I wave him back. “I’ll get it.”
At the door, Georgie waits, a wine bottle in one hand, a bunch of daffodils in the other. “Hi. I think my Dad’s expecting me?”
“He is, yes, Georgie. Everyone’s in the kitchen. Come on through.”
In the kitc
