by Jenny Colgan
Oh God. And they’d have to sort out Pa another way. Hell, he’d probably end up living with Tripp, which was the last thing Tripp wanted. He’d always been closer to his father, but as it turned out, particularly as his mind was starting to go, his pa was a bit of a mean sonofabitch after all. Colton hadn’t been entirely wrong about that.
This didn’t sit right with Tripp. It didn’t sit right at all. He thought again of his mom, fretful and unhappy in her own age. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he thought she might have been fretful and unhappy her entire life. He wondered if she’d been happy married to his loud, overbearing pa. Maybe not. It had never even occurred to him.
But that was just families, wasn’t it? he thought. Families were always complicated. They never just got on. That was for the movies.
He considered it some more. Nobody was perfect. But it was pretty hard to think of them, not knowing their only son was dying until it was too late. They deserved another conversation, didn’t they? Didn’t everyone deserve a second chance? One last chance to say goodbye? A little comfort in their old age.
It occurred to Tripp suddenly that when he’d arrived here he thought it was Colton who needed a second chance, to stop being such a rich douche all the time.
Now he wondered, just in a tiny deep part of himself, if maybe it was his parents who needed a second chance. Or all of them.
Tripp Rogers was not a man given to much introspection. It must, he thought, be the wild wind and the snow outside and the fact that there was absolutely nothing as far as he could tell – not a bowling alley, not a golf course – here to do. Picking up a book would not have occurred to him.
Inge-Britt smiled over at him sympathetically.
‘Hey, got anything to eat?’ he asked. He’d no idea what time it was – it was always dark, apparently, and he was still jet-lagged, but his belly was telling him he was hungry.
‘Just crisps,’ said Inge-Britt, which, it transpired, meant chips and he wasn’t going to get satisfied from those.
‘You should remember to go to the Seaside Kitchen,’ she said. ‘It’s great, the food there.’
Tripp harrumphed.
‘I’m banned from there.’
‘Banned?’ said Inge-Britt. ‘From the Seaside Kitchen? I wouldn’t have thought so. Flora’s lovely.’
‘Yeah, I don’t know why.’
Inge-Britt looked at him.
‘ . . . I just asked after some faggy guy . . .’
Inge-Britt stared at him.
‘You mean Fintan?’
Tripp glanced to the side, conscious that he’d made a terrible mistake.
‘Uh . . .’
‘Out,’ said Inge-Britt. ‘Settle your bill, and then out.’
‘But there’s nowhere else to go!’ whined Tripp.
‘Not my problem,’ said Inge-Britt. ‘We tolerate quite a lot round here. But not arseholes.’
* * *
It was freezing outside. Tripp eyed up his huge car and wondered mournfully if he could sleep in it. Throwing himself on Colton’s mercy wasn’t even an option; he assumed the answer would be no. Or if it was yes, it would only be so Colton could look down on him. That’s how he would feel if the boot was on the other foot.
Also he could smell food, definitely somewhere. He buried his hands in the pocket of his parka and followed the scent of fish and chips down to the harbourside.
A small girl was standing in the doorway of the shop. Tripp didn’t have kids – neither of his marriages had lasted quite long enough, which was a relief, although he’d still ended up having to pay them both enough. The girl had her arms folded, and hair that was almost pure white.
‘YOU HAVE TO WAIT BEHIND ME,’ she announced.
‘All right, little lady,’ said Tripp, happy to meet someone he probably wouldn’t offend.
‘Agot, stop being a hellion,’ said a pleasant-sounding voice, and a tall brown-haired man, who looked slightly familiar, stepped out from behind her.
‘Sorry,’ he said. Then he looked at Tripp and blinked.
‘ATTI FLOWA IS TIRED AND NO DINNER,’ explained Agot patiently, and Tripp thought about the name Flora, and his tired brain put it together. Christ on a bike, was this entire family the only people on this godforsaken island?
‘Well, that sounds like a good reason for . . . whatever this is.’
‘It’s fish and chips,’ explained Innes. ‘But you can have haggis if you like. Or a saveloy.’
Tripp blinked again, confused. None of that had meant anything to him.
‘Would you like me to order for you?’ said the good-natured Innes, who was used to Americans looking confused in the chippie, and Tripp said yes, and Innes ordered him haddock and chips with extra crispy bits and plenty of vinegar and a large bottle of Irn Bru, and Tripp was so hungry he started eating it then and there, whereupon of course Agot wanted to eat hers, and Innes being Innes let her, so they ended up in conversation and, unaware of the gossip or problems, Innes gathered that Tripp was here to visit his brother, and somehow – this was unusual, particularly in December – there wasn’t any space at the Harbour’s Rest for him and so he ended up offering him a place to stay for the night.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Flora only wanted a hot bath and an early night when she arrived home. Rather to her consternation, there was more noise than usual in the kitchen. Agot was shouting at someone.
‘YOU NOT COWBOY,’ she was saying.
‘That’s right, little lady,’ another American voice was saying. ‘I’m not a cowboy.’
‘YOU NOT COWBOY.’
Wearily, Flora put her head around the door. It was not the American voice she was looking for. In the kitchen was her father by the fire, Hamish sitting opposite him playing Jenga by himself, Innes opening the post and Fintan by the kettle looking annoyed about something – i.e. a fairly normal scene. But down on the floor was a furious-looking Agot talking to a stout man Flora recognised immediately as the man she’d thrown out of the Seaside Kitchen.
She raised an eyebrow at Fintan immediately, who shot her a look back.
‘Fintan, can I have a word?’ she said loudly.
‘Talk to Innes,’ said Fintan. ‘Anyway, nobody thought you were coming home tonight.’
Innes looked up surprised.
‘Joel’s just got back. I assumed you’d be at the Rock.’
‘KISSING!’ shouted Agot gleefully.
‘But . . . !’ said Flora.
Fintan looked at her wearily.
‘Flora,’ he said. ‘He’s family.’
Tripp stood up and put out his hand formally.
‘I’m sorry for what I said earlier, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Are you?’ said Flora. ‘Or are you just looking for a place to stay?’
‘Your kind brother did show me the best and only fish and chips I’ve ever had.’
Flora sniffed.
‘Did you get some for me?’
‘Oh God, she’s hangry,’ said Innes.
‘HANGRY!’ shouted Agot mischievously.
‘Right,’ said Fintan. ‘I’m off. See you later. There’s a stroganoff on the stove, sis.’
‘Kiss Colton for me,’ said Flora wearily. She meant to add, ‘And kill him for telling Joel about the baby,’ but perhaps this wasn’t the time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was 4 a.m. in New York. Joel had to stop doing this to Mark; he wasn’t getting any younger, and one of these days he’d give him a heart attack. At least, that was what Marsha thought as soon as she realised who was making the telephone blare beside their bed, only the language she used was rather saltier.
‘I’ll take it out in the sitting room,’ said Mark, rubbing his eyes, but it was minus seven outside in the snowy streets of the great city, and even their modern penthouse had cold floors.
‘No, it’s all right,’ said Marsha, fumbling for the bedside light and pulling on her glasses. ‘If it’s Joel, can I listen in?’
/> ‘She’s here,’ said Mark, in a sleepy voice. ‘Can you still talk?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I guess . . . yes.’
Marsha blinked.
Mark obligingly put out a large arm in their flowery sheets, and she leaned into his comforting, incredibly familiar hairy warmth and laid her little, birdlike head on his chest so they could both listen without putting on the speaker, which neither of them knew how to work.
‘Joel?’ said Mark.
‘Uh,’ said Joel uncomfortably. He was back at the Rock, pacing the empty corridors as his own room had seemed to be closing in on him. ‘Uh, something happened.’
‘Okay,’ said Mark in that slow comfortable voice. ‘Okay, Joel. I see. Now, are you calm? Are you breathing properly?
Joel took another deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.
‘Yeah, man. I’m trying.’
‘Okay. So. What’s the matter?’
It was odd: after years of very sporadic contact from Joel, the last year or so had been such a seismic one for him emotionally, they’d somehow become much closer. On the surface, Joel looked so professional – smart, fit, together. Only a very few people knew how deeply troubled he was; how hard he had to work to hold together that persona. And being in love for the first time was exposing all the cracks to the air.
Mark very much believed in exposing cracks to the air. He thought that was the only way anything started to heal.
‘It’s Flora,’ said Joel, not quite able to believe he was speaking the words. Marsha looked concerned.
‘She’s . . . she’s pregnant.’
Mark cautioned Marsha to silence. Then, very quietly and carefully, he held the phone far away from his ear. He and Marsha turned to each other deep in the marital bed and mouthed ‘YEEEEEAHHHHH!’
Trying their best not to giggle, Mark emphatically shushed Marsha, threatening to put his hand over her mouth, then straightened up his own face, wriggling his jaw to make sure he retained a suitable tone of voice.
‘I see,’ he said, and his bland tone would have fooled anyone in the world. ‘And this is . . . ?’
Joel found himself staring out of a huge window at the end of the corridor, over the pounding sea. He could see too his own reflection in the spotless glass.
‘I . . . I . . .’
There was a pause. Marsha was doing a silent victory dance in bed.
‘I’m not ready.’
Mark left the silence hanging.
‘Why not?’ he said eventually.
Joel was frustrated.
‘Well. You know how it is, because the last time I looked in my family, there was a bit of a tendency towards murder?’
Mark let that sit there too. Then:
‘You think babies are murderers?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Joel. ‘I’m sure nobody thought Hitler was a murderer. When he was a baby.’
‘So Flora is going to give birth to Hitler?’
‘This isn’t funny, Mark.’
‘And does Mure raise a lot of murderers, would you say?’
Joel sighed.
‘We’ve been . . . we’ve barely been together five minutes . . .’
‘JOEL!’
‘Sorry . . . that must make me sound like a dickhead.’
‘I can’t remark professionally on that,’ said Mark as Marsha nodded emphatically in the bed next to him.
The line crackled the thousands of miles across the great Atlantic Ocean, over across the wild miles of water, far above the chugging tankers, the whales and all the concerns of the deep oceans of the world and between the tiny, tiny, tiny islands of Mure and Manhattan, under a dark sky. Joel looked out again. At last a line of pink was marking the dawn, at nearly 9 a.m., across the water. It was fearsomely cold, but the sky was lined with rose-gold tones. Freezing out there, ice thrown in your face – but very beautiful.
‘How’s Flora?’
Joel screwed up his face.
‘I’m not sure I handled it very well.’
Mark could feel Marsha rolling her eyes next to him.
‘Tell Marsha to stop rolling her eyes,’ added Joel.
‘I’m saying nothing,’ said Marsha loudly.
‘You know, women can feel very fragile during pregnancy.’
Joel snorted.
‘There’s nothing fragile about Flora. She’s the strongest person I’ve ever known.’
‘Do you really think that?’ said Mark. ‘Or do you need her to be that? To fix everything you feel is missing in you?’
Joel bit his lip crossly.
‘Well, exactly,’ he said, sounding like a child. ‘If I’m wrong about that then I’m in no fit state to move on to . . . to all this.’
‘A baby,’ said Mark softly. ‘It’s not “this.” It’s everything.’
He was conscious now of Marsha moving away from him, staring out of the window silently. Their inability to have children had been the only blot in what had otherwise been an extremely long and contented marriage, and the soreness had never quite healed.
Joel leaned his head against the window.
‘What if I can’t do it, Mark? What if I can’t be a dad, can’t handle it?’
‘You’ve managed everything you’ve ever tried,’ said Mark.
‘Yes, because I can control me. You can’t control a child.’
‘He’s up on the parenting lore already,’ said Marsha, and Mark hushed her.
There was a pause.
‘Anyway,’ said Mark. ‘The baby doesn’t matter.’
Joel blinked, took his glasses off and rubbed them.
‘What?’
‘The baby doesn’t matter.’
‘What the hell are you talking about? This is all that matters.’
‘Not today. There’s no baby today. All that matters today is your girlfriend.’
Joel paused.
‘Joel. Tell me you at least call her your girlfriend?’
Marsha made a groaning noise.
‘Well. I mean . . .’
‘I’ve said it before,’ said Mark, ‘and I love you, but sometimes I worry whether you deserve this girl . . .’
There was a long pause.
‘I want to,’ said Joel finally.
‘Good,’ said Mark. ‘Look, Joel. You can deal with this. I promise. Any of it and all of it. Don’t do anything rash. Think about any decisions that have to be made. Today, all you have is a girlfriend. Who needs care and attention. Baby steps – one at a time. One day at a time, one breath at a time. That’s the only way anyone gets through anything, okay? And call me in the morning. My morning, not your morning.’
Joel made a non-committal noise and hung up. It was strange: they seemed completely unsurprised, and had just assumed straightaway that it would work out, that he and Flora would even keep the baby, that it would be okay. This was a new thought to him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Literally the last thing Flora felt like was entertaining an unpleasant stranger. On the other hand, it helped a little. Otherwise what was she going to do – sit in her room with the door closed, crying?
Agot was standing in front of her father, mutinous.
‘HE NOT COWBOY, FLOWA,’ she was saying crossly.
‘I don’t think he said he was one,’ said Flora mildly, going to the stove. Thank God, Fintan – who couldn’t bear fried food – had indeed cooked something up for her: the stroganoff smelled rather magnificent and the miraculous wonder that was microwaved rice had finally made it to Mure. And winter chard would work as a vegetable, however much Agot turned up her tiny nose and repeatedly made the urgent point that it was HOSS FOOD, ATTI FLOWA, NOT PEOPLE FOOD.
Tripp stood there, running his hand up and down his hat unhappily as Flora walked past him.
Eck looked up from the fireside, where he had been snoozing in front of the racing pages. He never really paid much attention to who traipsed through his kitchen.
‘Come sit.’ He nodded at Tripp. ‘Flora, get anothe
r glass please.’
Flora brought another glass with bad grace and poured out whisky without offering any water with it, which actually suited Tripp just fine.
‘How was it seeing Colton?’ she asked eventually, unable to bear the atmosphere in the kitchen. Fintan, trying to leave, glanced over.
Tripp shrugged.
‘Ah. Well . . . I mean . . .’
‘Why did you come?’
Tripp blinked.
‘Well. He’s family. I mean. We haven’t seen much of him over the years . . .’
Flora sniffed – she couldn’t help it. Agot immediately tried one out too.
‘ . . . but we follow him. In the papers and so on. And when we saw . . . that he wasn’t around much . . .’
‘You came looking for his money,’ said Fintan tersely while putting on his scarf and gloves.
Tripp put down his glass.
‘That was part of it, yeah,’ he said. ‘But his mom wants to know . . . she just wants to know he’s okay.’
‘Well, he isn’t,’ said Fintan shortly.
‘I can leave tomorrow, man,’ said Tripp.
Fintan heaved a great sigh.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
There was a long silence disturbed only by Agot practising her haughty sniff, which was clearly about to become an important part of her repertoire.
‘It’s just . . .’
‘What?’ Fintan looked up, critical and hopeful all at once.
Tripp shrugged.
‘I think . . . if it was possible. I think Mom . . . I mean, Pa can’t really tell much of what’s going on at the moment. And him and Colton. They never saw eye to eye, not really. But Mom . . . I mean. She was pretty much . . .’
These words were hard for Tripp to say.
‘I mean. Pop was a tough character, you know? He wanted things done his way. And Colton, man . . . Colton won’t do anything anybody’s way.’
Fintan half smiled at that, because it was so true.
‘And Mom . . . she just went along with it. Even if . . .’
His voice trailed off.
‘Even when maybe she shouldn’t.’
He looked up.
‘I think . . . I think maybe she’d like to see him, one last time? By Skype maybe? Or a phone call?’