"Where are you off to then? I've never seen you so dressed up, not even when you were alive." Harold smiled at his Uncle Frederick, who seemed to have worm the same mustard cardigan for the last ten years of his life and the five after that. He wouldn't have minded, but it was green when it was new.
"A funeral," said Frederick. "Brigadier Alfred Lord Hewitt. Splendid chap. We met in a bookshop after the war. He always wore a red silk handkerchief in his top pocket. He stayed here for a while, you know."
"You weren't in the war, Uncle. You were born in 1943."
"I didn't say I was in the war, Harold. I said he was. I met him in 1956 when Papa was just getting to his sociopathic stage. He stayed for a year or two then upped and vanished without so much as a by-your-leave."
"He must have had a good innings if he's only just died!"
"Not really." Frederick adjusted his cravat. "Julie just dug him up from behind the potting shed."