Linus Whiteley's Birthday

It's Linus Whiteley's birthday next week. He's going to be eighty-eight years old. I tell him every afternoon over our game of cribbage, but he keeps on forgetting.

"Eighty-eight?!" His face unfolds to reveal his delight. "Am I going to have a party?"

"Yes, of course you'll have a party. Everyone has a party on their birthday."

"Really? Do they?"

"Yes. We'll have cake and tea and biscuits."

"Oh, that sounds lovely. Will John and Jessie bring us breakfast in bed?"

"No, Linus."

"Will we go for a walk in the afternoon across the Heath? Will we have lunch at Kenwood House? Will we sit outside on the patio?"

"No, Linus."

"Will we go out to the club for a big fancy dinner? Will the Newtons come over before we go? Will Julia Carter be there? And Eric and Martin and Cornelius Quentin?"

"No, Linus."

He smiles at me sadly and I can see that he understands.

The smile disappears.

"You've got lovely hair," he says, listlessly. I squeeze his hand and shuffle the deck.