we do have some medicinal brandy. Stephen, however, stuck to his whiskey.’ Sidney was no aficionado but he had spent enough time with his friends in the Ulster Rifles to recognise that he was not experiencing Stephen Staunton’s favourite blended whiskey. There was no smoky aroma, no fruity sweetness redolent of vanilla and bitter toffee. In short, it was not Bushmills. ‘Of course, Stephen used to drink far too much,’ Clive Morton continued. ‘And it always gets to you in the end. I’ve seen it in so many friends, especially those who couldn’t settle down after the war. They come home and can’t explain what they’ve been through. So they drink to cheer up, the alcohol depresses them, and then they drink even more to get through the depression. Did you fight yourself, Canon Chambers, or were you a padre?’ ‘I fought, Mr Morton. With the Scots Guards . . .’ The reply was more insistent than he had intended but Sidney did not intend to be patronised. ‘Good for you!’ his host continued. Sidney remembered bayonet practice on the Meadows, running into sandbags and being told how important it was to hate his enemy. He had never been much good at that but he guessed that he had seen more of death than Clive Morton. ‘Is this all that’s left?’ he asked. ‘In this decanter?’ ‘Why? Do you want another?’ His host laughed. Sidney remembered Hildegard Staunton’s words. ‘You cannot get Bushmills in Cambridge and he wouldn’t drink anything else.’ ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘This is quite enough.’ There was a pause. Sidney knew that he should leave but thought that if he let the silence hold a little longer then Clive Morton might say more. 31
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