did as she was told.
‘Grub’s up, Mum!’ said Christian, rubbing his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm.
‘What are we having?’ asked Daphne, lowering herself into the chair that Christian was holding out for her.
‘Looks like shepherd’s pie to me,’ said Christian.
‘That’s exactly what it is!’ enthused Dervla. ‘Shepherd’s pie! Made by my own fair hands! Except it’s not strictly speaking shepherd’s pie, because it’s made with beef, not lamb. I suppose it should be called cowman’s pie instead.’ ‘Isn’t it known as cottage pie?’ Christian supplied.
‘Oh, yes! I think you’re right.’
Dervla felt as if she were doing a bad audition for a job as a children’s television presenter. Her smile had never felt more fake. Having finished serving, she was about to sit down when Daphne lowered her head and said: ‘For what we are about to receive…’
Yikes! Grace? Dervla gave Christian a look of enquiry. He responded with a nod, and Dervla took her place at the table, murmuring, ‘May the Lord make us truly thankful.’
‘Amen.’ Daphne peered at her plate. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s shepherd’s pie, Daphne,’ Dervla reminded her.
‘Oh, good. I love shepherd’s pie.’
‘We all love shepherd’s pie.’ Christian took up his fork and tried a mouthful. ‘Mmm. It is delicious.’
‘I’m going to eat this now,’ announced Daphne. ‘Shall I eat it?’
‘Yes. Do.’
Dipping her fork into the shepherd’s pie, Daphne scooped some up. But as she brought the food to her mouth, a lump of mashed potato dropped onto her lap.
‘Oops!’ said Dervla. ‘I’ll get a cloth.’
Daphne gave her a cross look. ‘I don’t have a napkin! I should have a napkin.’
‘I’ll get you one now.’ Dervla helped herself to a cloth, and tore some sheets off a roll of kitchen towel. Then she wiped the mashed potato off Daphne’s lap, and distributed the makeshift napkins. ‘Nappies for everyone!’ she carolled. ‘Dear God,’ remarked Christian. ‘I hope not.’
Dervla widened her eyes at him, and he winked. Resuming her seat, she tried hard not to laugh, but it was proving impossible, and then, to make matters worse, Christian started to laugh too.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Daphne.
‘Nothing,’ he told her. ‘I just remembered a joke.’
Daphne looked put out. ‘Well, if it’s so side-splittingly funny, I think you might have the manners to share it.’
‘Um. OK. A grasshopper walks into a bar. The barman looks astonished. “Hey – whaddaya know?” he says. “We have a cocktail named after you.” The grasshopper gives the bartender a bemused look and says: “You have a cocktail called Steve?”’
Dervla started to laugh again. It was one of those awful fits of spasmodic laughter that happens when you are painfully aware that laughing is completely out of order, like laughing in church, or in the doctor’s waiting room.
Daphne gave Dervla a frosty look. ‘I think that is not a joke at all. Or if it is, it’s a very silly joke. You should be ashamed of yourself, Christian, for telling such silly jokes. What age are you now?’
‘I’m forty-five, Mum.’
‘You’re never forty-five!’ exclaimed Daphne.
‘I sure am. And feeling every day of it.’
‘But are you my son?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what age am I?’
‘You’re well over eighty, Mum.’
‘But I don’t want to be that old! That’s dreadful!’
‘Yes. But, sure – you’re as young as you feel.’
There was a pregnant pause as Daphne digested the news that she was eighty-something and Des O’Connor crooned over the speakers about Spanish eyes. ‘I’m carrying on the tradition of my family,’ she pronounced finally. ‘Living to a funny old age. My parents are still alive, you know. Aren’t they?’
Christian set down his fork. ‘What do you think, Mum?’
‘No.’ Daphne drooped a little. ‘It’s terrible when your memory deserts you.’
‘That’s what happens when you reach your age,’ Christian reassured her. ‘It’s OK. It’s not your fault.’
Dervla and Christian exchanged glances. A sudden sobriety had fallen on the dinner table. They continued to eat in silence for a while. Then Daphne looked curiously at Christian and said: ‘Did you marry someone?’
‘Yes. I married Dervla.’
‘Dervla?’ she said, turning to regard her. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes, Daphne,’ said Dervla. ‘Christian, could you pass me the salt, please?’
‘Certainly,’ said Christian. ‘There you are.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Oh, this was awful, awful! Dervla felt as if she were spouting dialogue from a bad play. She couldn’t be spontan eous. She couldn’t just reach for the salt herself in case it looked unmannerly. She couldn’t burp and then go ‘Oops!’ She couldn’t say, ‘Look at that queer-shaped cloud.’ She couldn’t say, ‘I’m knackered.’ She couldn’t say, ‘How are you getting on with the new Patricia Cornwell?’ Because if she said any of those things, she’d have to explain to Daphne what she had said. She’d have to say, ‘There’s a funny-shaped cloud in the sky, Daphne. I was just pointing it out to Christian.’ She’d have to say, ‘I was just saying to Christian that I’m very tired.’ She’d have to say, ‘Christian is reading a book by an author called Patricia Cornwell, and I was wondering if he was enjoying it.’ And then Daphne would be bound to come out with something like, ‘Christian is not reading a book. He is eating his dinner.’ And then…And then?
Hell. She couldn’t allow this to happen to her. ‘Look at that queer-shaped cloud, Christian,’ she said, in a low voice.
‘Wow! It looks like the UFO from Close Encounters.’
‘That’s just what I was thinking!’
‘Why are you whispering?’ shouted Daphne. ‘You don’t want me to hear!’
‘We’re not whispering, Mum,’ said Christian.
‘Then
