There’s a welcome crunch of gravel.
‘They’re here!’
Relief sweeps over Penny’s face. Emily dances up and down. She loves Uncle Clive and Uncle Antoine. She takes them completely for granted and has never seen anything funny in their being two men together, but then she has no concept of the idea of a lover. Long may she not have.
But it’s the delight on the faces of Penny and William that amazes Naomi. She hasn’t realised how far they have travelled since they first met Antoine over twelve years ago, when she was eighteen. How embarrassed they had been in 1978. How affectionate they are in 1991. Clive and Antoine enter with beaming smiles and exciting parcels. The whole mood lifts. Well, no, not quite. Julian’s mood doesn’t lift. He never exchanged another word with Teresa after Naomi’s eighteenth birthday supper, but to him Antoine will always be what Teresa called him, ‘That Frog poofter.’ On the surface it’s prejudice, but deep down it’s even sadder than prejudice. Deep down it’s a defence mechanism against the sight of a man being so much more at ease with himself than he is.
There’s a round of kissing in the French style, on both cheeks and slightly formal. Even William, not a natural kisser, manages to kiss both Clive and Antoine, and does it with a bit of panache. ‘You’ve turned us all French now, Antoine,’ he says with shy pride.
Clive and Antoine don’t kiss Julian, though. His face is set in unkissable mode. His face is like a Pennine crag.
And almost immediately Antoine is on the floor, level with Emily, in front of the cosy, crackling winter fire.
‘So, Emily, do you want me to help you with the jigsaw or do you want to finish it on your own?’
‘Help me, please, Uncle Antoine.’
Naomi and Clive give each other a long, loving hug. Julian pours himself another sherry. Antoine finds a piece of sky. Emily squeals with delight. Penny’s mouth moves anxiously. Something is up.
‘What about the presents?’ asks Emily from the floor.
‘After lunch,’ says Penny.
‘Are you sure, Penny?’ asks William.
‘Well, no. Yes, now.’
Naomi realises that this exchange is meaningful. She just doesn’t know what the meaning is.
‘Julian,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘The day you don’t hand round the presents, this house won’t be L’Ancresse any more.’
Julian pretends not to be pleased.
Clive and Antoine have brought lovely presents for everyone, they’re really good at presents, and living in Paris does help, though how they get them all on the plane is a mystery. But things like weight restrictions don’t matter to Antoine. He charms his way through.
In their turn, Clive and Antoine express great delight at the presents they have been given.
‘Late night last night?’ asks Julian.
‘Yes,’ says Clive. ‘Good party. Francis Bacon was there.’
‘Name dropper.’
‘Excuse me, we hate name dropping,’ says Antoine from the floor, where he has just found the piece that completes the funnel. ‘I was saying so to Brigitte Bardot only yesterday.’
‘Who’s Brigitte Bardot?’ asks Emily.
‘A beautiful French actress who was better treated by animals than by people,’ says Naomi.
‘But that’s not why we’re late, Julian,’ says Clive. ‘We set off in good time. Had a problem with the ruddy car. Hire cars!’
‘Right,’ says Penny firmly, finding a suitable cue at last. ‘Well, you’re here anyway. Lunch.’
They take their seats at the table. The dining room smells even more of disuse now that all the children have left home. The table is plainly laid, as ever, but there are crackers.
‘I know it’s not Christmas,’ says Penny, ‘but Emily loves them.’
‘Uncle Antoine loves them too,’ says Emily.
They pull their crackers, with much laughter as Julian is left without any of the insides of either of the two crackers he’s pulled, laughter which is killed stone dead when he says, ‘You see. Can’t even pull crackers.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not in the mood for paper hats,’ he says, but Naomi says, ‘Julian!’ and she can wind this gruff, awkward brother of hers round her little finger. He puts on his paper hat – it’s a bright yellow crown – without protest.
‘What do you get if you cross a fish with two elephants?’ reads out Clive.
‘A very large bouillabaisse?’ suggests Antoine.
‘No. Swimming trunks.’
There is a loud, communal groan, but Emily laughs with delight.
Penny begins to serve the meal. She has made a special curry, not quite so hot, for Emily. Naomi waits for her to make some kind of disparaging remark to Antoine about the food. If only her mother had more self-confidence. The remark duly comes.
‘It’s only curry, I’m afraid, Antoine. Well, the food over Christmas has been rather rich and a bit bland, I mean, let’s face it, turkey is bland, there’s no getting away from it, so I thought it might make a nice change.’
‘It’s perfect, Penny. I like your curry. It’s one thing we French are not good at.’
‘Charming as ever, Antoine.’ William beams as he says this, trying to show that he’s not being sarcastic. But it doesn’t quite work. Everything he says sounds at least faintly sarcastic. It’s the schoolmaster in him.
‘Antoine’s charm is his weakness,’ says Clive. ‘You should see him in Paris. He makes Maurice Chevalier look like a yob. People have to meet him at least five times before they realise he’s sincere. It’s held him back enormously in the art world.’
‘How is business?’ asks William.
‘Not good. We struggle on. Couldn’t do it without Clive’s regular earning.’
Clive teaches English, and teaches it well. He has inherited his father’s talent.
‘He’s a strange one, isn’t he?’ says Clive. ‘The more way out his art gets – I mean, he’s letting the cat walk over the paint now – the more he dresses like a bank manager.’
Clive is in jeans and an open-necked shirt. Antoine is wearing a suit and tie.
‘Too many artists live their art instead of painting it,’ says Antoine.
‘What do you mean about the cat, Uncle Clive?’ asks Emily, who loves cats.
‘I slosh wet paint on a canvas and let her walk over it,’ explains Antoine. ‘The marks she makes become incorporated into the structure of the painting. She does it brilliantly. Sasha’s very artistic. She’s a natural. It’s the element of chance in life that I need, you see. You can have too much composition. There is no composition in life. Sacha is therefore an essential element in my work, and doesn’t she know it? She doesn’t even mind too much when I have to use turps to wipe her feet.’
Emily laughs. She is so happy about the cat.
‘I thought you were bringing your girlfriend, Julian,’ says Clive.
‘Just