But it’s chilly out here. The dining room door stands open, dimly lit beyond, but with the amber glow of a low-burning fire. Slipping inside, I stand the door open a little so I can listen to the singing.
The room is decked out with the paraphernalia of Christmas: holly, mistletoe, a tree; still smelling of resin and Winter, glittering in the golden light of the fire, and decked with the paper knick-knacks the women made.
The table is set out with red and green linen, silver candlesticks and a glass-domed cheese-plate. On the sideboard, decanters and glasses sit on a silver tray beside bottles of port, sherry and brandy, a bowl of fruit, another of nuts.
Still listening to the song-making, I pour myself a small glass of port and sit to listen…
Ryan’s tones: an unexpectedly deep bass, n
