this was said only in his head. In reality, he quietly began to eat.
‘Spectacular food, Dad. Well done. Your Sunday lunch is just super,’ said Camilla, with a sad smile.
‘I like the potatoes best,’ contributed a small voice to his right.
Doubler examined the child, Camilla’s youngest, with heightened interest.
‘You do, do you? And why is that?’
‘Because they’re crunchy,’ he said seriously. ‘And they’re fluffy.’ He scrutinized the potato on the end of his fork. ‘They’re crunchy and they’re fluffy.’
‘You, young man, show some promise. That is exactly why they’re good.’ Doubler smiled, looking and feeling very much like a grandfather.
The small child, emboldened by his grandfather’s warmth, continued, ‘Mum’s are oily. And a bit squishy. Sometimes they’re hard, too.’
‘Darling, that’s not very kind,’ said Camilla. ‘Darren, tell Benj that’s not very kind.’
‘That’s not very kind, Benj. Your mother’s potatoes aren’t as nice because we don’t have an Aga. Your grandfather has an Aga, which is why the potatoes are nicer,’ said Darren, without lifting his eyes from his plate.
Doubler was surprised by this information. Surprised that his son-in-law would have so much to say on the subject. It was a shame he was wrong.
‘The Aga didn’t cook the potatoes. I cooked the potatoes. A strong heat source is all it takes, and actually you can cook very good roast potatoes in most ovens, even those with an uneven temperature, providing you take a bit of extra care. It’s in the preparation. You need to parboil them for long enough to ensure they’re not hard in the middle. It’s important that the outer layer of the potato just begins to break down so that it will absorb some of the fat you’re cooking them in. Give them a really good shake in the pan when you’ve drained them, which will ensure you get a good mix of crispy bits. The fat’s important, too. I use goose.’
‘Gross,’ said a voice from Doubler’s left, the elder of Julian’s children.
The younger of Julian’s children stifled a giggle.
Doubler continued, ‘The roasting is easy providing you put your parboiled potatoes into very hot fat. You can’t go wrong. They need good seasoning, too. The seasoning is always important.’
‘I don’t know why you’ve never taught me to cook roast potatoes, Dad, if mine are apparently so substandard.’ The hurt evident in her voice, Camilla directed the comment towards her husband.
‘Because you only ever turn up here at lunchtime. If you want to see how I prepare the roast, you really need to be here around 9 a.m.’
‘Fair enough, but what about when I was a teenager? That might have been more useful. It might have prevented me from a lifetime of cooking inferior potatoes for my family.’ Again Camilla addressed the comment in the direction of her husband.
‘Your mother cooked,’ said Doubler definitively.
Camilla looked down at her plate and carried on eating.
Julian, uninterested in potatoes or their preparation, continued heedlessly, ‘Arable land is worth a premium at the moment. Fifteen thou an acre on a good day, but with this strategic stronghold, it would be worth much more than that. And the house has a great footprint – you’d get a sizable premium from a developer. It might well be worth applying for outline planning now. If nothing else, that would get Peele to up his game.’
Doubler looked beyond his son to the view out of the window. He could see for miles at this time of the year, despite the frosted glass. In the summer, the view was curtailed by the wisteria that wrapped itself round the house, the vigorous new growth fighting with the honeysuckle and roses that entwined it. The foliage shaded the room, cutting down on the sunlight that crept in, and this, coupled with the thick flagstones, ensured the room remained beautifully cool. Doubler loved this view. He loved this room, hot and smoky in the winter, cold and shady in the summer. He was not a materialistic man; he was a man of the soil, but nevertheless he wondered whether he could love a house more.
Camilla was having a good look around her, too. ‘Your daily is obviously doing a good job still: the place is immaculate.’
A small flicker of warmth enveloped Doubler’s heart. Mrs Millwood! he thought to himself, but as quickly the thought of her dispelled. She had no place here; theirs was strictly a table for two.
‘Mmmm,’ he said non-committally.
‘Is she still up here full time?’ ventured Julian, doing a quick calculation in his head. ‘Seems like a bit of an indulgence, Dad. If you had a smaller place, you wouldn’t need all that help. Less to worry about at your time of life.’
‘Seconds?’ Doubler addressed the table.
‘Really, Dad, you should get your head out of the sand. Opportunities can go just as quickly as they come. Think about how you will cope in five years’ time, ten years’ time. It’s not going to get any easier.’
Doubler didn’t feel old. He felt his years, but with these years came a host of benefits. He knew his body well, and he and it had come to a steady understanding. He fed it the fuel it required – not too much, not too little – and he maintained it to a good working standard. And in turn, it didn’t let him down. Doubler felt that the mutual respect shared by mind and body might well mean that together they would go on for ever. But when Doubler’s son was around, he felt different. Not older but much less sure. Julian made him feel fallible, and his impatience with his father if he were slow to stand to his feet or if he paused for a moment’s reflection before speaking gave way to such obvious contempt and open hostility that Doubler became quite capable of doubting both his body and his mind.
‘I’m not old,’ he said, ‘but goodness me, you make me feel tired.’ This, he said to himself.
Plates found their way back to Doubler, and as he layered thin slices of beef on each and sent the plates on their course for seconds of vegetables, he contemplated his son, who, somewhere in the background, was continuing to whine on about how old and incompetent his father would soon be.
That’s me he’s talking about, thought Doubler, somewhat abstractly. That’s his old man’s life he’s wishing away. Now all he talks about is when I get old, when I die, what I’m worth. What he really wants to know is when he can bank some of my wealth in his account. I know what’s on his mind. He’s worried I might well fritter it away or do something stupid. Or give it to the animal shelter.
Doubler’s thoughts drifted easily from the animal shelter to Mrs Millwood. Mrs Millwood volunteered at an animal shelter. Doubler didn’t know much about the comings and goings of such a place, other than the tales he heard over lunch. And at their lunches, Mrs Millwood tended only to wield accounts of heartwarming kindness, designed to elevate his mood. But Doubler understood quite a bit about abandonment.
‘There might be a need for some cash – you’re right, Julian,’ Doubler said, pulling himself out of his reverie, and experiencing a little thrill of anticipation at the knowledge that he was about to provoke his pompous son.
Julian looked up from his plate, surprised that his words had finally
