The Patrick Melrose Novels: Never Mind, Bad News, Some Hope, and Mother's Milk by Edward St. Aubyn

during dinner.’

    With his cigar he caught a stray ant which was escaping with singed antennae from his last incendiary raid. ‘If you really miss someone, you are better off doing something you both enjoyed doing together, which is unlikely to mean, except in the most bizarre cases, standing around in a draughty church, wearing a black overcoat and singing hymns.’

    The ant ran away with astonishing speed and was about to reach the far side of the wall when David, stretching a little, touched it lightly with a surgeon’s precision. Its skin blistered and it squirmed violently as it died.

    ‘One should only go to an enemy’s memorial service. Quite apart from the pleasure of outlasting him, it is an opportunity for a truce. Forgiveness is so important, don’t you think?’

    ‘Gosh, yes,’ said Bridget, ‘especially getting other people to forgive you.’

    David smiled at her encouragingly, until he saw Eleanor step through the doorway.

    ‘Ah, Eleanor,’ grinned Nicholas with exaggerated pleasure, ‘we were just talking about Jonathan Croyden’s memorial.’

    ‘I guess it’s the end of an era,’ said Eleanor.

    ‘He was the last man alive to have gone to one of Evelyn Waugh’s parties in drag,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was said to dress much better as a woman than as a man. He was an inspiration to a whole generation of Englishmen. Which reminds me, after the memorial I met a very tiresome, smarmy Indian who claimed to have visited you just before staying with Jonathan at Cap Ferrat.’

    ‘It must have been Vijay,’ said Eleanor. ‘Victor brought him over.’

    ‘That’s the one,’ Nicholas nodded. ‘He seemed to know that I was coming here. Perfectly extraordinary as I’d never set eyes on him before.’

    ‘He’s desperately fashionable,’ explained David, ‘and consequently knows more about people he has never met than he does about anything else.’

    Eleanor perched on a frail white chair with a faded blue cushion on its circular seat. She rose again immediately and dragged the chair further towards the shade of the fig tree.

    ‘Watch out,’ said Bridget, ‘you might squash some of the figs.’

    Eleanor made no reply.

    ‘It seems a pity to waste them,’ said Bridget innocently, leaning over to pick a fig off the ground. ‘This one is perfect.’ She brought it close to her mouth. ‘Isn’t it weird the way their skin is purple and white at the same time.’

    ‘Like a drunk with emphysema,’ said David, smiling at Eleanor.

    Bridget opened her mouth, rounded her lips and pushed the fig inside. She suddenly felt what she later described to Barry as a ‘very heavy vibe’ from David, ‘as if he was pushing his fist into my womb’. Bridget swallowed the fig, but she felt a physical need to get out of the deckchair and move further away from David.

    She walked beside the edge of the wall above the garden terrace and, wanting to explain her sudden action, she stretched out her arms, embraced the view, and said, ‘What a perfect day.’ Nobody replied. Scanning the landscape for something else to say, she glimpsed a slight movement at the far end of the garden. At first she thought it was an animal crouched under the pear tree, but when it got up she saw that it was a child. ‘Is that your son?’ she asked. ‘In the red trousers.’

    Eleanor walked over to her side. ‘Yes, it’s Patrick. Patrick!’ she shouted. ‘Do you want some tea, darling?’

    There was no answer. ‘Maybe he can’t hear you,’ said Bridget.

    ‘Of course he can,’ said David. ‘He’s just being tiresome.’

    ‘Maybe we can’t hear him,’ said Eleanor. ‘Patrick!’ she shouted again. ‘Why don’t you come and have some tea with us?’

    ‘He’s shaking his head,’ said Bridget.

    ‘He’s probably had tea two or three times already,’ said Nicholas; ‘you know what they’re like at that age.’

    ‘God, children are so sweet ,’ said Bridget, smiling at Eleanor.