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the table at each other in Swedish, culminating in Allegra spitting, ‘And I haven’t forgotten about the tin opener !’ in English while stabbing several carrot dice menacingly with her fork.
    There was an awkward pause, then Lars glared and hissed, ‘Allegra, no smiling! Be careful of your stitches!’
    Allegra scowled, then winced, then did a half-scowl with extra-narrowed eyes.
    ‘If you have any more lifts and tucks, Allegra, I shall have to have your birth certificate altered,’ observed Daddy, with breathtaking hypocrisy. ‘Your surgeon’s had more input into your appearance than your mother and I.’
    ‘If only it were that easy,’ she shot back.
    ‘Allegra! Martin!’ cried Mummy, in a strangled tone.
    Looking across the table, I was struck by Emery sipping at her water glass and wincing. She always looked vaguely pained, as if the sheer unfairness of life were bearing down heavily on her wispy shoulders, but tonight she was looking about as strained as I’d ever seen her.
    ‘Emery,’ I murmured as Mrs Lloyd floated in and out of the shadows, clearing away the plates. ‘Are you feeling all right? Is your lasagne OK?’
    ‘Oh, um . . .’ She glanced at her half-eaten lasagne as if she’d only just realised it was there. Emery normally ate like a horse, albeit in such a stealthy way that no one ever saw the food vanish from her plate.
    ‘Time for a spot of pudding, I think, don’t you?’ Mummy said, and before we even had time to wonder what it was, Mrs Lloyd had reappeared as if by magic at the door. She was holding a tray with my grandmother’s ‘priceless’ crystal trifle bowl on it.
    Jonathan looked at me, clearly impressed. I’d have to tell him later about the doorbell under the table. The one my father overused so much with the last housekeeper, on account of the way his leg jiggled up and down whenever he became enraged, that she ended up throwing an entire dish of roast partridge over him.
    Mrs Lloyd started to advance slowly towards the table. She seemed somewhat self-conscious.
    ‘So, what delight have you whisked up for us, Mrs Lloyd?’ asked Mummy, beaming.
    Mrs Lloyd showed her the contents of the bowl and her smile froze a little. ‘Oh. This was all that was left after . . . ?’
    Mrs Lloyd nodded.
    Mummy recovered herself, as was her great skill in life. ‘Emery, darling! We made your favourite especially!’
    ‘What?’ Emery said doubtfully. ‘Bird’s Trifle? Seriously?’
    ‘Seriously?’ demanded my father. ‘You’re serving me Bird’s Trifle for dinner?’
    ‘Bird’s trifle?’ asked William, his brow creasing. ‘That’s got . . . birds in it?’
    ‘Lovely!’ I cried, before an argument could break out.
    By the time the vast platters of cheese and biscuits began to circulate, I spotted my mother sending covert glances towards Daddy’s end of the table. Not that he noticed. He was now holding forth to both Jonathan and William about where the British had gone wrong in the War of Independence, using the silver cruet set as tactical demonstration – of what, it wasn’t clear. In the candlelight, his eyes and teeth were gleaming out of the darkness like those of a shark in formaldehyde.
    I caught Jonathan’s eye, hoping he wasn’t too close to the end of his tether, but he smiled back at me and let the faint shadow of a private wink cross his face.
    I think my mother saw, because she started to smile and fiddle girlishly with her diamond earrings.
    ‘Anyway,’ my father went on smoothly, banging his hands on the table and rising to his feet. ‘I’d like to say a few words at this juncture, if it’s all the same to everyone else.’
    Emery, Allegra and I flinched. Allegra actually groaned aloud, which I thought was brave of her.
    Daddy fired a quick glare in her direction, then beamed in an avuncular manner at Jonathan, William and Lars. I wasn’t taken in by that carefully honed ‘open body language’. I’d seen him through eight local and