‘Won’t do you any harm after months on the all-chip diet.’ I put up another finger. ‘Two: he is gay and doesn’t fancy you. Short period of moping, knock to your self-confidence, then you move on.’
‘And three?’
‘He is gay, does fancy you, happily ever after ensues. So that’s a one in three chance of happily ever after, right? Pretty good odds.’
Tom shook his head. ‘You’d never make it as a bookie, sis.’
‘Look, I won’t tell him you like him or anything. Just a reccy.’
He squinted suspiciously at me. ‘What sort of reccy?’
‘I’ll just, you know, engage him in conversation. Flirt a bit, see if he responds.’
‘Right. And how will you know if he’s gay or he just doesn’t fancy you?’
‘A girl can always tell.’ I ruffled his hair. ‘Leave it to little sister, ok?’
Chapter 11
When I got to the chip shop, an attractive lad with dark, floppy hair and glasses was behind the counter.
Right. Flirting. Oh God, how did you flirt? Eyes were involved, weren’t they? Eyes and hair. Girls in books were always tossing it about, like they were advertising L’Oreal or something.
Yolanda. That was it. I needed to channel Yolanda, the queen of flirting.
I tried giving the old eyelashes a flutter, chucking in a bonus hair-toss, but Cameron just blinked at me.
‘Er, hi,’ I said, narrowly biting my tongue before I added ‘What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?’
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘What can I get you, love?’
‘Fish and chips once with scraps, please.’
‘Coming up.’ He grabbed his fish slice and started piling chips into a sheet of greaseproof paper. ‘Hey, do I know you?’ he asked, squinting into my face.
Was that a chat-up line? Ugh, this was hard. Yolanda jumped up a notch in my estimation for making it look so easy.
‘You might’ve seen me around. I run the restaurant at the top of the village with my brother.’
‘Yeah, probably what I’m thinking of. The cute one – Tom, is it? You look a bit like him.’
Cute, what did that mean: cute? Cute like an adorable little kitten? Or did he mean it the way Americans said it, like, shaggable cute?
‘Look, are you American?’ I blurted out. ‘I mean, are you gay?’
He blinked at me. ‘Er, yeah. I mean, what?’
I blushed furiously. God, I was making a right mess. Tom was going to kill me.
‘Actually mate, can you hold the fish?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Me too. That’s why I’m changing the subject before I die of shame. You give me chips, I’ll give you money and we’ll forget the whole thing, ok?’
He smiled. ‘My mum is from Vermont, to answer your question. Vinegar on them?’
‘Oh. Um, yes, please…’
‘Look, you seem a lovely girl,’ he said as he shook Sarsons generously over my chips. ‘I’m very flattered and all that, but you’re not really my type. Sorry.’
‘Oh God, that’s brilliant,’ I said with a smile of relief. ‘You are gay.’
‘No. I’m bi, if you really want to know.’ He shook his head. ‘You know, it’s not every day I get quizzed on my sexuality by customers. You were asking me out, right?’
‘Not exactly. Er, hey, do you like cycling?’
***
When I got home, Tom was waiting expectantly by the living-room door. While he wasn’t quite hopping from foot to foot, it looked touch and go whether he wouldn’t start any minute.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
I tossed him the packet of chips. ‘There’s a guy works down the chip shop swears he’s on the non-binary scale of sexual orientation.’
‘Right.’ He frowned. ‘And in English we say…?’
‘In English we say you’re in.’
His face brightened. ‘He is gay?’
‘Bi apparently, but I think he likes you. He said you were cute. And he’s half American so that means “fit” in proper English.’
‘Ha! Seriously? Oh my God!’ He threw himself at me for a hug. ‘Thanks, Lana.’
I patted his back. ‘I made a bit of a hash of it actually, but we got there.’
He let me go, looking nervous again. ‘So what do I do now?’
‘Has it really been so long you can’t remember? You’re as bad as me.’
‘The sad thing is it actually has. Not quite got the nerve to just stroll in and ask him out.’
I tapped my head. ‘Don’t worry, Tommy, it’s all here in your sister’s cunning brain. I invited him onto the cycling committee.’
‘Did you? Why?’
‘It’ll give the two of you chance to get to know each other, won’t it? In a social situation where you’re not divided by a chippy counter. Cracking idea, though I say so myself. Plus, we need all the help we can get.’
I felt a buzz in my jeans pocket and yanked out my phone.
‘Roger Collingwood,’ I said, frowning. ‘What does he want? I only saw him a few hours ago.’
‘Hello, Lana,’ Roger said when I answered. ‘Listen, are you sitting down?’
‘Not yet.’ I struggled out of my coat and chucked it over the arm of the sofa, then plonked myself down. ‘Now I am. What’s up, Roger?’
‘Were you really serious about that viaduct idea?’
‘Course, why?’
‘Good, because I popped into the village archives at the Temperance Hall to research it. I thought I could find out why it hadn’t been tried before.’
‘And?’
‘As it turns out, it has. Someone in the village looked into getting it opened eight years ago.’
‘Don’t remember that. Who was it?’
‘Are you sure you’re sitting down?’
‘I told you I am,’ I said impatiently. ‘Come on, who?’
‘Filippo Donati.’
My eyebrows shot up. ‘You’re kidding!’
‘I’m not. I’m holding a stack of his paperwork into making it a right of way here.’
‘But why didn’t he say anything to us?’
‘It doesn’t look like he got beyond initial research in 2005 – that’s when he was diagnosed, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, blinking. ‘God, yes, that’s right.’
‘Maybe that’s why. Listen, I’ll get it all copied and pop it through your letterbox.’
‘Thanks, Rodge, you’re a saint.’
‘What was that all about?’ Tom asked when I’d hung up.
‘You’ll never believe it. The viaduct – well, you know how I said it was just the sort of thing Dad would want us to be doing?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Turns out he had the same idea. He was looking into getting it opened when he got his diagnosis.’
‘Shit! Really?’
‘Yep.’ I shifted in my seat to look at him. ‘Well, that decides it, doesn’t it? Bugger the memorial bench. We’re giving our old man a viaduct.’
***
Roger dropped a fat packet through our letterbox the same evening. I didn’t have time to look at it until my shift finished, but by the time Tom was done with maitre d’ duties I was more than halfway through.
‘Bloody hell, Tommy!’ I said when he’d joined me at the coffee table.
‘What’s it say then?’
‘The viaduct. It wasn’t just an idea, Dad had a whole plan. Looked like he was well into it by the time he started the first round of chemo.’
Tom gave Flash, between us on the sofa, an absent stroke. ‘Yeah. He got pretty tired after that.’
‘He’s left us all the blueprints,’ I said, scanning the paperwork. ‘Structural survey, financial viability, everything! Good old Dad.’ I pointed to one
item. ‘Look at that.’
Tom glanced at the spreadsheet. ‘Woah. Is that true?’
‘Figures add up. Forty grand a year it’s costing to keep the viaduct in its current state.’ I looked up. ‘Dad estimated it’d only cost around 50 to get it done up.’
‘Then why don’t the council do it already?’
‘Dunno, accountability? No one pays attention to money spent on maintenance. Knocking down or fixing up: that’s when questions get asked.’
‘What can we do then?’
‘Fight, of course! Get the whole community behind us. Then the council would have to listen.’ I tweaked a sheet of paper out of my pile. ‘Look.’
There was a sketch among the paperwork, another of Dad’s creative talents. It showed families, cyclists, horse riders, walkers, all making their way over the arches; our long-dead viaduct, alive and useful again.
‘When did he find time to do all this?’ Tom said.
‘You know what he was like. Probably planning a big reveal, just to see the look on our faces.’ I glanced up from the sketch, eyes shining. ‘Know what this means?’
‘Hard work?’
‘Well, yes. But it means we can do something he really wanted. The viaduct open; the Tour making history on it!’
Tom looked doubtful. ‘It is a good idea,’ he said hesitantly. ‘But I’m worried about you, sis. Why so feverish? You’re grieving, you need to take things slowly.’
‘But it’s what Dad wanted. That means it’s what we want too, isn’t it?’
‘I just can’t help feeling you’re setting yourself up for disappointment. Dad wouldn’t have wanted that.’
I frowned. ‘All right, genius, what would he have wanted?’
‘It doesn’t matter now, except to us.’ He flung a comforting arm around me. ‘Dad’s gone, Lana. It’s like the coffin. It might be the same size and shape and weight as Dad, but it isn’t him. Dad’s… not here. Not any more.’
‘He’s here in us. And damn it, I’m going to make sure everyone knows it. They won’t forget him, not while I’ve got breath.’
‘Who said they’d forget him?’ Tom said quietly. ‘You’re being defensive against an argument no one’s made.’
I blinked back a tear, staring down at little fuzzy Flash on the sofa. ‘Maybe I said it.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Maybe I’m scared. Scared of forgetting him myself. It’s only been a month, and already, when I try to picture his face…’ I looked up at him through eyes claggy with tears. ‘I need this, Tommy. Let me fight. It’s all I’ve got.’
‘Is it healthy though?’
‘Healthier than your chip habit.’
‘Ah, that’s different,’ he said with a smile. ‘Puppy love.’
‘You’re 28. You’re not a puppy any more.’ I sighed. ‘And it’s the same really, isn’t it? Fear of losing a dream. That’s why you’re too scared to ask Cameron out. A dream’s better than nothing.’
‘I’m not nothing, am I? Or Gerry, or Sue. You’re not alone, Lana.’
‘No. But I miss my dad. And this feels like… like closure.’
Chapter 12
‘Now are you sure you and Deb can manage?’ I said to Jasmine as Tom and I prepared to leave for the first cycling meeting. We’d planned it for a Thursday, always a quiet night in the restaurant – especially these days. ‘There’s another barrel of honey mead in the cellar if we run out, and, oh, tell Deano I got more cream, it’s in the fridge – ’
‘We’ll be fine, Lana,’ she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. ‘You worry too much. I’ll just let Deano know I’m here then I’ll get my costume on.’
‘What’s with her fashion sense lately?’ Tom asked as he watched the teenager’s knee-high rainbow socks and hotpants disappear into the kitchen.
‘Trying to impress Deano. She’s got a crush on him.’
‘Ha! Seriously?’
‘Yeah. Stockholm’s, I reckon. Come on, let’s get this over with.’
***
When we got to the pub, Yolanda and Sue were already at a table, glaring at each other.
‘Oh God, what now?’ I muttered to Tom.
We got a drink each and headed over.
‘Believe me, Susan, nothing can have been further from my mind than offending you,’ Yolanda was saying. ‘I made the merest suggestion of a tweak to your recipe.’
‘You what?’ said Sue. ‘You didn’t even use my recipe! That’s a bloody Nigella recipe, that is. I know because she always calls for too much flour.’
‘All right, what’re you two arguing about today?’ Tom asked as we took our seats.
Sue glared at Yolanda. ‘Ask her ladyship.’
‘Well, Yo-yo?’
Yolanda shrugged. ‘She would insist on us using her supposedly fabulous recipe for lavender scones at the cake sale last week. I made one teensy change and now she’s all huffy.’
‘One teensy change my wobbly backside, love,’ Sue said. ‘You didn’t even use it! Trust me, my mam invented that recipe. I can taste the difference.’
‘Are there really that many recipes for scones though?’ I said, taking a sip of my Guinness. ‘Surely they’re all the same, flour and butter or whatever.’
I could tell by the look of horror both women turned on me that it was the wrong thing to say.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.
Sue shook her head. ‘And your old man a chef.’
Yolanda reached over to give my hand a pat when Sue mentioned Dad. ‘How are you both doing, my loves?’ she asked gently.
She was only being nice, of course. Still, I was getting heartily sick of that question. What did people expect the answer to be? ‘Yeah, I’m crying inside, thanks, but I’ll probably get over it in a year or so’?
‘As well as we can,’ I said.
‘Where’s Gerry?’ Tom asked, picking up on my tone and deftly changing the subject.
Sue jerked her head towards the door. ‘Having a fag.’
‘So we’re just waiting on Stewart,’ Yolanda said brightly.
Sue shook her head. ‘Don’t you be flirting with him all night, Yolanda Sommerville. We’re here to work, not set you up with a lad half your age.’
‘Still. That could be a nice bonus for my community spiritedness, couldn’t it?’ Yolanda lowered her voice. ‘Lovely pert bottoms, these cyclists.’
‘Are you going to be ok, love?’ Sue asked me quietly.
For a second I thought she was talking about Dad. Then I realised she meant Stewart.
‘I’ll manage.’ I sighed. ‘Much as I hate to admit it, he will be useful to have on board. Let’s just all stay civil. Sure we can manage that.’ I glanced from her to Yolanda. ‘As long as we keep off the scones.’
I noticed Tom blush deeply and followed his gaze to Cameron, who was at the bar.
‘Oh. Yeah. Actually, there is someone else coming tonight,’ I said. ‘I recruited us a new member. The lad from the chippy, Cameron. Big cycling fan. Er, his mum’s from Vermont,’ I added by way of an introduction. It was the only thing I knew about him.
Sue glanced over my shoulder to get a look at Cameron, then back to Tom’s pinkened cheeks.
‘I see.’
She didn’t need to say any more. Sue was sharp as a needle when it came to our love lives.
‘Hiya,’ Stewart said, sinking into a free seat next to Yolanda.
‘Oof! Bloody hell, lad! You gave me the fright of my life.’ Sue patted her heart, her huge bosom jiggling alarmingly. ‘Where did you creep from?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve been here the whole time you have, having a drink with Kit over there. Didn’t you see me?’
‘No.’
‘They call me The Spectre,’ he said, tossing his curls. ‘I walk like the night. You look behind you,
and fzzt! I’m gone.’
Yolanda giggled. ‘You’re funny, aren’t you? I like that in a man.’
Sue snorted. ‘What you like in a man is oxygen and a Y chromosome. Everything else is optional.’
I suppressed an eyeroll as Cameron came over to join us.
‘Hi,’ he said, hovering nervously with a carrier bag clutched in one hand and a pint in the other. ‘Er, can I sit down?’
‘Course you can,’ Sue said, indicating a chair. She smiled a welcome. ‘Thanks for joining us.’
Cameron took his seat. He seemed on edge, his eyes darting around as if he was wondering whether he’d made a big mistake in agreeing to come.
I gave Tom a nudge. He’d come over all Class 4 nativity, staring into his drink to avoid eye contact.
‘Er, hi,’ he said to Cameron, his cheeks a fetching shade of pink. ‘Nice to see you. You look different without your… chips.’
‘Thanks. Oh, that reminds me.’ Cameron reached under the table for the bag he’d been carrying. ‘My treat. Chips and scraps, right? You normally come in today, so when you didn’t, I thought maybe you’d, um, run out of time. I put a buttered teacake in too, I know you like them.’
‘Oh, right, yeah.’ Tom took the bag, just brushing Cameron’s fingers. ‘My favourite,’ said the man who’d told me earlier that if he ever saw another chip he’d vom.
‘So, you know, if you wanted to come in next week as usual, er… I could have them ready.’
Tom beamed. ‘Thanks, Cameron. I’ll do that.’
Yolanda looked bored during this conversation she had no part in.
‘Forgive me, but aren’t we supposed to be discussing the Tour de France?’ she said. ‘Why is everyone talking about chips?’
‘We need Gerry first,’ I said.
Sue waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, don’t wait for him. He’ll be hiding out there chain-smoking until he’s sure what he’s so hilariously dubbed Sconegate is done with. Let’s make a start.’
‘Ok, who wants to go first?’ Stewart asked.
Tom elbowed me. ‘Our Lana does. She’s had another brainwave.’
‘Don’t hurt yourself, will you, hun?’ Yolanda said. I shot her a look.
‘Well, Lana, what’ve you got?’ Stewart said.
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