by Fiona Gibson
‘It was important, though,’ he says now. ‘I think that’s what happened. I’d become a bit blinkered. I’d stopped seeing the things that really mattered—’
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ I say quickly. ‘It was both of us. It happens to people, and I honestly think we’ve done our best.’ I glance at him as we start to walk on, Nate clutching Scout’s lead, head lowered. ‘Can I ask you something?’ I add.
‘Yes, of course.’
I pause as we arrive at the end of our street. Flynn will be out, thankfully. ‘If you were to list all my faults, what would you put?’
Nate swaps Scout’s lead to his other hand. ‘I can’t think of any,’ he replies.
‘Oh, Nate.’ My insides seem to crush. Nate looks at me with a sort of stoical smile, and he takes my hand again as we make our way back home. It feels warm and comforting, and I should feel happy that we’ve got this far; we’ve raised a wonderful son, and grown up together. But a long time ago, I knew our time together was running out. I think perhaps Nate did too, and I also think he knows now what I am going to say.
And so, over more coffee, this time in our kitchen, I tell him about the vacant cottage I went to view, in a village just outside Hesslevale.
‘I said I’d take it,’ I explain. ‘It’s tiny, but it’s just been renovated, and there’s a small garden with a river at the bottom.’ I pause, willing myself to explain things calmly. ‘I think Flynn should stay with you for the time being, if that’s okay.’
I see him swallow, and he nods. ‘Yes, I think so too,’ he says, rubbing at his face.
‘He’s … well, he’s happy here, Nate.’ My husband nods, unable to look at me now. I’d sensed that today wouldn’t be a repeat of my dramatic shock exit a few months ago, and I was right; I’m sure Nate knew it was coming.
‘So, is this place furnished?’ he asks distractedly.
‘In a basic way, yes. It’s pretty nice. You should come over.’
‘Can I help with anything? I mean, is there any DIY you need doing?’ He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. ‘I mean that. I’m not being shitty, I promise …’
I smile awkwardly. ‘Erm, I don’t think I need—’
‘I’d just like to come over and help you sort things out, if that’s okay,’ he adds quickly, taking off his spectacles and rubbing at his eyes. ‘You’ve got loads of things here. I can pack them up for you and bring them over, if you like …’
‘That’d be great,’ I murmur. ‘Actually, I think there’s still some of my jewellery stuff in the attic. Would you mind getting that down for me?’
‘Of course – no problem …’
‘It’s just, there’s an outhouse in the garden,’ I add. ‘It’s kind of why I decided to take the place. It was an old workshop, the guy fixed farm machinery and stuff, bit of blacksmithing, that kind of thing. And it’d be perfect to turn into a studio.’
‘A studio? So, you really are ready to start over.’ He musters a smile.
I nod. ‘I’ve been thinking about some designs. It’s about time, Nate …’
‘I’m really pleased for you,’ he says, looking down. ‘I mean, not about you moving out. Of course I’m not. But, you know, I always felt you were wasted in the gift shop …’
‘You once called it a “little job”,’ I remark with a small smile.
His cheeks flush. ‘Did I really say that? God, I’m sorry. How condescending …’
‘You were right, though,’ I insist. ‘I mean, basically, I’ve been selling chakra-balancing hot-water-bottle covers that are supposed to heal you while you sleep—’
‘Is there really such a thing?’ Nate asks.
‘I’m sorry to tell you, but there is.’
We are nursing our coffee mugs now, knowing that Flynn will be home soon, and then we’ll have to tell him all over again. I’m aware, too, that Nate doesn’t really want to discuss hot-water-bottle covers. There’s another issue, hanging above us.
His gaze rests upon mine across the table. ‘You would tell me if there was someone else, wouldn’t you?’
‘You mean Brett, don’t you?’
‘Well, yeah, I suppose I do.’
‘Um, he has been in touch,’ I say hesitantly, ‘and we’re going to meet for a drink. But please believe me, we’re just friends—’
‘For now,’ Nate says, arching a brow.
‘Yes.’ I clear my throat. ‘That’s all I’m looking for – for now. I don’t want anyone else, truly. I just want us to carry on doing what we do, being friends and helping and supporting each other, and being Mum and Dad to Flynn.’
Nate nods and adjusts his specs. ‘I just want you to be happy, Sinead,’ he murmurs.
I get up and put my arms around him. ‘I want you to be happy too. You’re such a good person and I’m always going to love you. But right now, and I hope you can understand this …’ I break off at the sound of the front door opening.
Our gainfully employed son is home; the boy who has his dad to thank for making him believe he could be a guitarist, never mind his condition; why should that hold him back? It was a gift Nate gave to him, and I hope Flynn will realise that one day.
‘You do understand, don’t you?’ I whisper to Nate.
‘Yes, I think I do.’
‘I suppose,’ I add, stepping away from him now, ‘I just need to be me again.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Flynn
So, my parents think, because I have a disability, that they need to worry about me all the time. Or maybe it’s not that, and all parents act that way. I don’t think so, though. Max and Luke are allowed to do pretty much what they want without anyone worrying madly. I mean, if they stay over at ours, or at a party or whatever, they just get a text from their mums saying something like, Hello stranger, what do you look like again?
It’s jokey and light. My parents have never been jokey and light. Actually, that’s probably not fair. We had loads of good times when I was younger, and if things got trickier as I grew up – well, I suppose that’s normal. When I was little it was fine to have Mum there at every medical appointment, chipping in, praising me in from of the doctor or physio or whoever. ‘That’s great, Flynn!’ she’d say, looking all proud. There were tears, too, when I had to have something like an operation, and Dad would step in then – not because he doesn’t get emotional (he does, he just tries to hide it). I guess he felt that was his job, to be the strong one. I just wish they’d realise they don’t need to be so protective anymore – Mum especially.
I mean, I’m virtually an adult. A lot’s happened to my family this year, and we’ve got through it okay. Mum and Dad split up for a while, which was pretty shocking, but then, loads of people I know have parents who aren’t together, and I decided it was probably best if Mum wasn’t happy. I hoped it was just a temporary thing, though – Mum living at Abby’s, I mean. And it was. Then there was the baby, and they seemed happy again, for a little while – and then they weren’t.
And they worry about me not knowing what I want to do with the rest of my life?
I’m thinking about that as I get off the bus in Solworth and check my phone for directions. Stan’s Records. It’s down some back street, behind a garage and a broken-down building. At first, it doesn’t seem like it’s the right road, as the only other shops down here are a tiny newsagent’s and a charity shop that looks like it’s closed down. When I find the place, down the end of the road, I’m amazed the guy can make a living out of it.
It was actually Kayla’s idea for me to do this. At least, she sparked things off. We became friends after the thing at school with the spray paint; then she was the victim, so she knew exactly how I’d felt. ‘Spastic’ and ‘slag’. Nice, huh? We started hanging out at lunchtimes, going into town to get a sandwich or chips together, and more recently, now it’s the holidays, we’ve just been meeting up in the park. I told Dad, but only because his friend Paolo said he’d seen ‘your Flynn and a girl, laughing away outside t
he chippie the other day’. You can’t do anything around here without someone noticing.
‘I’m allowed to have friends, aren’t I?’ I asked, not minding really.
‘Sure!’ Dad said with a smile. I told him who the girl was, thinking he might be weird about it. Although everyone knows Kayla didn’t do the graffiti, I thought Dad might not like it all being stirred up again. I also knew about her mum’s twenty-five driving tests or however many it was, and we worked out that Dad must have failed her on at least some of them. So maybe it’s awkward for him. I’d hate to be a driving examiner. I’d rather do something that makes people feel happy, like give guitar lessons or play in a band, than have a job that everyone associates with stress and failure. But then, I guess somebody has to do it.
Anyway, me and Kayla were talking about music, and I told her about Dad selling his records (which has to count as the weirdest thing he has ever done). She suggested buying some back to surprise him. Well, Dad’s birthday’s coming up. He’ll be forty-four or forty-five, something like that. He’s started playing in a band again – with this Stan guy, who I can see now, through the window of his scruffy little shop. I’m not going to buy the whole lot, obviously. The holiday club doesn’t pay that well. In fact, after my bus fare, I’m thinking: maybe just one.
‘Pick something that meant a real lot to him,’ Kayla had said. Now, as I push open the glass door, I’m hoping it won’t seem like I’m giving him something that was already his. Like that time he gave Mum that massive clump of flowers – in the old bucket from our shed.
In fact, I know which album to buy as Stan looks up from behind the cluttered counter. ‘Hey,’ he says with a smile. ‘You’re the one who phoned, yeah?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I’d thought I’d better check he’d be open, as there wasn’t a website or anything like that. I couldn’t even find a Facebook page. I just had to google record shops in the area and finally I managed to find Stan.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ He pauses, checking me out. Of course he remembers me. Everyone does when there’s something different about you. ‘You’re Nate’s son, right? We met when I came to pick up his records?’
‘That’s right,’ I murmur. ‘Erm, I’m looking for something for him, actually.’
‘Can I help at all?’
‘No, I’m good, thanks.’
He nods, and I start to flick through randomly, even though I’ve decided now what I’m looking for. But I want to make it look like I’m checking everything out. That’s what Dad would do. He’d browse the contents of the whole shop before making his choice.
‘So, are you coming to see us play next week, then?’ Stan asks. ‘Your dad’s not bad, you know.’ He chuckles. ‘Quite an addition to the band. He’s shaken us up …’
I look up from the records and smile. ‘Not sure. I’ll try and make it.’
‘Busy schedule?’ Stan teases.
‘Yeah.’ I make my way round to the rock section and flick through the albums, the way I’ve seen Dad do so many times, when he’s snuck into record shops on holidays.
And here it is: exactly what I’m looking for. I examine the sleeve and carry it over to Stan at the counter.
‘Just the one?’ he asks.
‘Yes please.’
He looks at it closely and frowns. ‘Aw, I can’t take your money for this, son. Just have it …’
‘No, honestly – I want to pay for it. Please.’ I fish out the cash from my pocket, and Stan shrugs and thanks me.
‘So, you think he’ll like it?’ he asks with a ridiculous wink.
‘Yeah, I reckon.’ I smile at this weird-looking man with white stitching all over the collar of his black shirt, and I leave his shop, clutching my Stan’s Records carrier bag. Inside the bag, with ‘Nate Turner’ neatly written in Biro on the back of the sleeve, is Dad’s very own copy of Born in the USA.
Chapter Forty
Nate
It’s funny how things pan out sometimes. I mean, Flynn hasn’t made me a birthday card for years. He used to draw loads when he was little, the kitchen table perpetually scattered with pens and crayons and his wild pictures. I thought he’d lost interest or grown out of it. However, today, over a late Saturday breakfast, I am presented with a card bearing a rather wonky illustration of me, in T-shirt and jeans, playing guitar on a stage.
‘This is brilliant,’ I exclaim. ‘I wasn’t expecting a home-made card …’ Or any, in fact, as I suspect Sinead always bought them for him to give to me.
‘There’s something else,’ Flynn says, reaching down and reappearing with a flat, square parcel wrapped in checked paper. Proper wrapping paper! Impressive. I look at my son, with his hair all messy, still in trackie bottoms and the T-shirt he slept in, and smile. I have no plans for today really; Sinead and Abby have gone to a holiday house on the coast for a week – her birthday card to me arrived by post first thing – and I ducked out of Paolo’s invitation for dinner at their place.
And it’s fine. I mean, I am forty-four years old, not nine: I neither expect nor want a big fuss.
‘Aren’t you going to open it then?’ Flynn prompts me.
‘Okay. Thanks.’ I take it from him, sensing his impatience. He has a new sort of energy about him these days; a sign that life is good right now. Perhaps a certain girl is involved? I wouldn’t dream of asking about his friendship with Kayla … but I suspect something is happening there.
I examine the parcel, deciding to tease him by spinning it out. Clearly, it’s an album – or something that feels exactly like one. It’s that satisfying size and weight. I remove the paper carefully as he shuffles on his chair, no doubt wishing I’d just rip it off, the way he does.
I stare at the album in my hands and look at him. ‘Flynn! My God. Thank you so much.’ I beam at him. ‘This is … well, this is fantastic. Have I ever told you it’s the first record I ever bought?’
‘Yeah, only about a hundred times,’ he chuckles, adding, ‘It’s the actual one, Dad.’ He is grinning now, cheeks flushed, barely able to contain himself.
‘What? How can it be the one?’ I turn the record over, and there’s my juvenile Biro’d handwriting. I used to write my name on all of my records, even the singles; they never felt mine until I had.
‘See?’ Flynn says. ‘I went to the shop and got it back for you.’
‘You went to Stan’s and bought this?’ I ask incredulously.
‘Yeah.’ He nods.
‘But, I don’t want you spending money on me—’ I stop and try to bat the tears from my eyes.
Flynn gets up and smiles. ‘Hey, I’m working now.’
‘Well, thank you,’ I say, getting up too. ‘I’m very proud of you, Flynn.’
‘Hmm.’ He shrugs bashfully, hovering for a moment. ‘There’s something else I wanted to mention.’
I frown and look at him. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ he says quickly. ‘It’s just … I want to learn to drive, Dad—’
‘Really? But you’re not seventeen till …’
‘It’s only four weeks away.’
I smile. Of course I know when my son’s birthday is.
‘I’ve been looking into it,’ he continues. ‘I know there’s extra stuff I’ll have to do, like declare my CP and get letters from the doctor and stuff. So I phoned Dr Kadow—’
‘You phoned him?’
‘Yeah, it wasn’t a big deal.’ He shrugs.
‘But … I could’ve done that for you,’ I say, astounded that he’s done this.
‘It was fine,’ he says breezily, already making for the door. ‘He said they’ll need to know when I last had a seizure, stuff like that—’
‘That was years ago …’
‘Yeah.’ Flynn thrusts his hands into his pockets. ‘Anyway, he said he can sort all that out for me.’
I pause for a moment, taking all of this in. ‘So then you can apply for your provisional licence …’
‘Yeah, that’s the plan,’ he says, a tr
ace of impatience in his voice now. ‘You will give me driving lessons, won’t you?’
I open my mouth to speak, momentarily stunned. Our last attempted guitar lesson flashes into my mind: those old dead guys. Chuck-fucking-Berry. ‘Are you sure you want me to?’
My son shakes his head, and laughs at my idiocy. ‘Of course I want you to. I mean, why would I want anyone else?’
And then he’s eager to rush off out, but not before I’ve hugged him; a proper hug, that is. It’s not like trying to embrace an ironing board this time. It’s warm and real, and it makes my heart soar. It’s like another birthday present, really. In fact, I’m already imagining the two of us in my car, with him turning on the ignition and pulling away. I have to try to calm myself, because there’s something else I need to do today.
After he’s gone, I while away the afternoon in the garden, and do some shopping, including a stop-off at the proper florists where they do hand-tied bouquets of all kinds of blowsy flowers: ‘The cottage garden look,’ the woman says approvingly, as she arranges them into a bunch.
‘That’s what I was after,’ I say, trying to sound knowledgeable. No garage forecourt flowers today. I’ve learnt a lot over the past few months: choose presents with care; avoid booze-infused fruit. And, as Tanzie wisely pointed out, there never is ‘just one mouse’.
Tanzie Miles. She sat her driving test last week, at a different centre; one closer to York, which I thought odd when news filtered through from the manager I know there (driving examiners might have the reputation of being a dry old bunch, but we’re human beings; we’re not averse to a bit of gossip). Perhaps Tanzie had thought a different environment might give her the fresh start she needed. I hope it wasn’t to avoid seeing me. I couldn’t have done her test anyway, as we know each other personally now.
‘Are we friends now, then?’ she asked, that day she talked me through Burger Bill’s menu.
Well, I hope so, I reflect, as I shower and change into a fresh T-shirt and clean jeans. Not that I’ve been a terribly good one. I know from Flynn that Tanzie finally left Gary, and that she and Kayla live in Hesslevale now, close to the high school; apart from the hug, that’s something else he gave me before he dashed out today. Their address, I mean. Okay, not their precise address, because teenagers don’t deal with addresses (I mean, why would they? They never post anything). In fact, all I managed to glean was a rather confusing description of ‘the road one back – no, I think two back from school. Near some trees. Top flat on the end.’