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My recollection of Mrs Crabbe's near immolation has probably been embellished by various factors. The version of events I subsequently recounted to Stacey, and which I still find irresistible when describing the day my grandmother's friend became a human torch, was almost certainly exaggerated. In the theatre of my brain, Mrs Crabbe remains indistinguishable from the flames which engulfed her, the fact is, however, that, by all other accounts these were extinguished within seconds causing minimal damage to her person, though ruining her best tweed skirt. For years, I was also fond of the notion that the hem of her skirt came into contact with naked flame at the exact moment it occurred to me to kick Brian's shin. This can be attributed to a natural teenage propensity for self-importance. I wasn't the only person present whose eyewitness account differed from the consensus. Harrison, for example, immediately claimed credit for saving Mrs Crabbe's life, though my own (admittedly sketchy) memory is of him standing in the middle of the staircase, waving his arms ineffectually and shouting instructions to those who were actually rolling Mrs Crabbe on the carpet. It was Val, I think, who emerged from the lounge with a small fire extinguisher, saving Mrs Crabbe from further harm, if not indignity, by covering her with foam.
What is beyond dispute is that, confronted by guests, concerned that they'd been lured into a death trap, my mother and Val attempted to mollify them by confiding the real reason for their presence. Harrison, after furiously, but unsuccessfully attempting to stop them from ruining his surprise, desperately came up with another distraction, shouting, “Ladies and gentlemen, refreshments will now be served,” and summoning Brian from the kitchen with mugs of imported coffee. Even that enticement proved insufficient to detain the guests whose distaste at having witness a near death by burning, was now exacerbated by the fact of their participation in a tea party which, by anyone's standards, might be considered ghoulish. I'm still not sure why Harrison was so determined to prolong events which were clearly going so catastrophically awry. Perhaps he'd planned games or a slideshow. For all I know he might have intended to change into a dinner suit and sing Nessun Dorma. It's impossible to apply logic to someone who had spent the previous evening calling everyone in his recently deceased mother's address book, inviting them to an informal get together without mentioning the most pertinent fact, that his mother was dead. Whatever scheme he had hatched, however, he was incensed by its last minute abortion.
“You can't just show up and impose your will,” he berated my mother while trying to place himself between the door and departing guests. “Everything was having a nice time until you arrived…”
“They weren't supposed to be having a nice time, Harrison! Our mother died! It's not a cause for celebration….”
“Well, that's where you're wrong. We'd discussed this. It's exactly what she wanted…. You and Steven weren't here…. ” Harrison stopped mid sentence. His mouth contorted as he clearly attempted to suppress a smirk.
“Where is Steven, Harrison?”
Still struggling to control his twitching lips, Harrison slapped his head in a gesture of self-chastisement. The smirk and the eyes gleaming cunningly beneath his splayed fingers suggested that the oversight had been anything other than accidental.