Around five hours ago. (Part One)

Around five hours ago, my wife opened the door to our first guests. A Mr and Mrs Roger Ingram that she knew from the annual fundraising event at our local church, to make money for new pews, or something of the sort I suppose. I had never met the Ingram’s before and was pleasantly surprised by what nice, gentle people they seemed. Mr Ingram, a bald-headed man of about sixty wore a chequered jacket and waistcoat. His wife, a short, stocky woman, around ten years her husbands junior, wore an unfussy dress and had a kind, wide face.

My own wife, Faye, had organised this party for each of the previous five years. It gave her something to concentrate on around the anniversary of our son’s death and the previous hostess was only too happy to allow my wife to take over in light of what had happened. Ever since the first party I have watched my wife measure and re-measure tablecloths, devise more and more inventive party games and strive to produce mulled wine of such a quality that it would be the talk of the entire city. Her enjoyment of the party is neither here nor there, she faces it each year with a grim-faced determination that melts into a welcoming smile the moment the first guests cross the threshold into our home.

So, the Ingrams had walked into our lounge and were seated on the couch whereby I belatedly asked for their coats and took them upstairs to the guest room where they would be they first of many to be piled on the bed. Rose Ingram was the first to congratulate us on such a delightful home and commented particularly on the candles we had on the mantelpiece. My wife engaged her in a brief discussion about the nature of those candles and how, on a taxi ride around Turin, she saw them through the doorway of a shop. If she had looked a moment later, my wife added, she would never have known that they were there, as the owner closed the door seconds later.

Mrs Ingram nodded and smiled. She too was a collector, she said, stamps, mugs, bed linen, anything with cats on it she had to have. Roger Ingram, hitherto quite quiet, nodded sagely and said that even his slippers had cats on them such was his wife’s obsession with all things feline. We spoke of my work as a psychologist over at the Institute and Mr Ingram told us of his plans following his retirement from the local library. He hoped that he would perhaps be able to get work at the animal sanctuary a few miles away for he had often wished he had been given the opportunity to train as a vet when he was a younger man. Faye agreed that working with animals would be a charming way to spend old age and asked if anyone would like some wine.

We were toasting to new friends and good health when the doorbell rang.

I opened it to find that it was the Robertson’s and the Carr’s huddled together on the doorstep for warmth. David Robertson claimed that they had been waiting ten minutes and had rung the bell at least twenty times. I was about to apologise until I saw the wicked glint in his eye and laughed at my own gullibility. No sooner had I closed the door than the bell rang again. The Boardmans, a younger couple from across the road, each carrying a bottle of wine and giggling like there had been a few more emptied at their house prior to their arrival.

(to be continued…)