Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

June 1987. The Grand Hotel, Margitsziget, Budapest.   James Fincham strode into the lobby and walked straight to the reception desk, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.   He set his brown leather holdall on the floor beside him.   The desk clerk looked up.    “Szervusz, Mr Leadbetter.   Good to see you. How can I help you?”   James replied in flawless Hungarian.    “Good morning, Ambrus.   Please can you tell me if Miss Fodor is in her room.”    “No, I believe she is in the lounge, sir.”    “Thank you, Ambrus.”   James ran his hand through his hair and walked over to the lounge area, towards a woman seated on an oversized sofa.   As soon as she saw him walking towards her, she leapt up and moved towards him.    “Henry, you’re late, darling. I feel as though I’ve been waiting for hours.”    “I’m only five minutes late, Martuska.   Come here.”   H...

His death had come so suddenly. Not an old man at all.   She’d ended up with the job of clearing her father’s house. None of her three brothers was ever to be seen if there was practical work to be done.   Sorry sis, just about to fly to LA. Business you know.   Not that they were all in the States, but they were all busy, busy men.   It was partly guilt though. She’d seen little of her father over recent months. They’d frequently not seen eye to eye. Was she trying to make up in some way for that lack of contact?   Order had always been her thing. Even as a girl, her bedroom had been so neat and tidy, everything in its place. The contents of her father’s house had succumbed to the same order, felt-tip ticks in relevant columns on her checklist, a testimony to her skills.   Category one. The rubbish – junk as her mother would have called it. A cluster of king-size supermarket bags were lined up in the back porch, waiting patiently to be carted a...