they are. Iâll stick with your walk.â
Merlyn laughed.
âIn that case why donât we walk to a pub and have a drink together? Or what about a restaurant?â
A little silence for thought ensued.
âAh well, normally Iâd say letâs go to a pub. But funds have been very low recently, and meals rather basic. Iâve never been much of a cook, and I get rather tired of bangers and hamburgers and fish fingers and that kind of thing. And oven chips are quite horrible, arenât they?â
âI donât think they have oven chips in Belgium,â said Merlyn. âIs there a recommendable restaurant near you?â
âThereâs the Belle Provence, but itâs rather pricey.â
âThat sounds just the place. What about your brother, Francis?â
âWhat about him?â
âWould he like to come too, do you think?â
âI have no idea. I shouldnât think heâs been in a real restaurant since he took Mother to the Mitre in Oxford and they had poached eggs on toast. Francis can be an awful bore. Heâll probably want to talk about proposed liturgical changes in the Anglican Communion service.â
âHeâll talk about what I want him to talk about,â said Merlyn grimly.
âOh, masterful!â
âBeing one of the European Union paymasters makes me feel masterful, when itâs necessary. Whatâs his telephone number?â
Francis sounded surprised to be invited, but without Malachiâs enthusiasm he agreed to meet his cousin and brother at the Belle Provence.
âYouâll have to forgive me if I do things wrong,â he said, rather touchingly. âIâm only really used to school dinners.â
Malachi lived in his old home, a small stone cottage still blackened by industrial smoke, on the borders of Kirkstall and Horsforth, in a narrow side street with ten or twelve similar dingy houses. Malachi, clearly, had not prospered in Merlynâs absence. When he knocked on the door Malachi sidled out, obviously not wanting the mess in his front room to be visible to his visitor. He clearly didnât have the courage of his bohemian convictions, Merlyn thought. They got into the car and Malachi directed him back to the main road, talking in his nonchalant way the while. Francis was already at the restaurant, put in an obscure corner very near the kitchen, but Merlyn managed to get them all seated at a table by the window, well away from any of the other diners. The restaurant proved to be French in its menu but Spanish or Portuguese in its waiting staff. Malachi ordered lavishly and enthusiastically, but Merlyn had to order for Francis, choosing soup and fish, afraid that overbloody meat would lead to a disquisition on vegetarianism and the spiritual dangers of complacency or pride on the part of its practitioners.
âThis is a treat, this,â said Malachi, looking around him appreciatively. âTimes are hard, dear boy. Sometimes I donât know where the price of my next pint is to come from.â
âI should have thought that with a stable economy, low inflation, low interest rates, and so on, things would be booming at the bookmakerâs,â Merlyn said.
âThere speaks the EU mind,â said Malachi bitterly. âI must admit business isnât too bad at the bookieâs. But the money doesnât seep down to the mere hirelingsâ¦And Iâve had one or two bad investments in the communications market.â
âYou and thousands like you,â said Merlyn. âBut I am sorry times are hard for you. And of course, you and Aunt Clarissa werenât the best of friends, were you?â
âOh, I wouldnât sayâ¦No, we werenât. I never could stand that sort of fakery. Clarissa was no better than a quack doctor, and anyone who paid her for her so-called predictions was getting nothing better than a quackâs colored water.â
âYou always