You’d brought a bottle of Southern Comfort with you from London. On the evening after the funeral you sat there smoking in the fading summer light as the dinner plates were taken away. When it became obvious that no more alcohol would be offered you heaved yourself upstairs and fished the bottle out from your luggage.</p>
It did well, that bottle, lasting as it did until 2am. The widow went to bed so it was just you and your husband and the two teenagers, and the drink hit them fast. At the start, you probably meant to be supportive as you questioned the drunken orphans.  But as anecdotes poured out your eyes narrowed and gleamed. So much information, all of a sudden, after years of conjecture… It was too much for you. You attempted to kick your husband under the table but missed and the oldest girl glanced up, eyebrows raised over tired bloodshot eyes. Later your mouth twisted, your voice vibrated as you reminisced about your own parents. How they forced you to give up your baby boy, how you wished you’d kept him, how you yearned to know what he’d become. Revealing too much was one of the dangers of drink, but then this was no longer a secret, it was a part of your repertory. It was new to the girls though and they reacted with appreciable shock. Shrieks and hugs; one of your best audiences yet. Your husband patted your arm, a little mechanically. His eyelids were starting to droop.  Jarring music kept drifting up from the radio, like rattling frying pans, cut through with French chatter from an excited male presenter. The TV was off – you’d not seen it switched on once. Seriously, this was one weird setup. </p>
Chilly air wafted in from the half-open window but no one offered to close it. Typical. Eventually you shuffled over and did it yourself. You sat down again with a sigh and refilled glasses all round. You reached the point of tears, three quarters down the bottle, and you vowed you’d not lose touch with your nieces this time. You were silent for a while, sipping the tepid drink, waiting for it explode inside you and grip at you again. Soon you were prodding for more, strained to memorise every spilt revelation.  So that’s what he’d been like, the man your sister had married! Just wait until you told the others, back home. If you remembered it all…Another problem with being drunk was that you forgot things, sometimes. Then from the tangle of spirals your mind was pulsing with, something whispered, “Who cares- what you don’t remember, you can invent…” So yes, a pretty enjoyable evening in spite of everything. 
