Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  “Sh-she has?”

  “Aye. I’ve told her everything.”

  “Why?”

  Tom waited until he was up on the solid tarmac of the bridge before he replied. “It’s kind of a long story. Get in, and I’ll explain on the way.” He unlocked the car and held the door open. Michael thought he might pass out from the swoon that hit him. Tom was a real gentleman.

  “Thanks,” Michael choked out. Tom nodded graciously and waited until he was seated before shutting the door. Michael was so worked up that his panting had already misted the windscreen, and he tried not to breathe. The driver’s door opened and Tom climbed in, frowning already.

  “What’s up?”

  Michael shrugged, still holding his breath. Tom chuckled and started the engine. The blowers fired up at the same time, and Michael slowly let the breath go.

  For a while, Tom drove in sombre silence. Michael waited, wondering what it was he wanted to explain. Tom indicated and turned at the top of the road. “So, I told you about my grandad last night. Do you remember?”

  “Yep.” It wasn’t a total lie. He remembered they’d talked about…something.

  “He wasn’t just a politics student. He was involved in politics. Republican politics, if you get me?”

  “H-he was…” Michael’s mouth fell open.

  “He was nothing to do with the bombing, but he was involved in other things going on at the time. The mad thing is, we moved from Derry to Omagh in 1997, thinking it would be safer.”

  “Wow. That’s amazing.”

  “So this is us, anyway.” Tom indicated right and drew up outside an end-terrace house with a neat wooden picket fence out front and a satellite dish on the roof. “You nervous?”

  Michael nodded. “A bit.”

  “It’ll be fine. You know our Katie from school, and she’s with Andy, who was the year above you. He might be here, I don’t know. And then there’s just my mum, my dad, and you know me already.” Tom gave him a cheeky smile.

  Michael was sure it was meant to reassure him, but it had a very different effect, to the extent that he had to hold back a moment before he got out of the car and kept his hands in his pockets all the way to the front door.

  Tom didn’t appear to have noticed, thankfully. He opened the front door and called, “We’re back.”

  He led the way through another door on the right, into the living room, where there was a huge sofa and armchair in deep red. A man—Tom’s dad, Michael guessed—sat at one end of the sofa, snoring his head off. Otherwise the room was deserted of people, although the sound of conversation drifted through a doorway at the other end of the sofa.

  “Come through,” Tom said, beckoning Michael to follow him, past the snoring man and around the coffee table, dodging the wide base of the tree, and into what turned out to be the kitchen.

  “That’s gotta be a record,” a woman said.

  “What?” Tom asked.

  “Shortest Mass ever?”

  “Oh. Right. Yeah. Um, Mum, this is Michael. Michael, this is my mum, Jackie.”

  Despite his nervousness around new people, Michael stepped forward and held out his hand to Tom’s mum. She took a hold of it and leaned close to give him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Happy Christmas, Michael. It’s lovely to meet you.”

  “Same to you,” he answered. Katie, whom he recognised from school though they’d never spoken, was standing behind her mother and paying no attention to Michael whatsoever. She threw down the mobile phone in her hand and shrieked.

  “He’s doing my head in.”

  “It’s only just gone nine, Katie. Give the boy a chance.”

  Katie huffed and looked Michael’s way, finally acknowledging his presence. “Oh that Michael.”

  “Who did you think I was talking about?” Tom asked.

  “I dunno.”

  Tom tutted and gently touched Michael on the arm, sending crazy sparks and shivers all through him. “Ignore her,” he said. “She’s a wind-up.”

  Michael managed a watery smile.

  “Right, so,” Tom’s mum said. “You’re staying for our tea and toast fest, are ye?”

  “If that’s all right, I’d love to.”

  “It’s absolutely fine. You make yourself at home now, won’t you?”

  “Thanks.” Michael wasn’t sure if that meant go and sit down or offer to help make the breakfast, but before he could formulate the thought to ask, Tom passed closely behind him, so close that the zip of Tom’s jeans brushed the stud on Michael’s back pocket. He gave Michael’s bicep a squeeze.

  “Just popping up to change my jeans. Be right back.”

  He disappeared through the doorway, leaving Michael standing in the kitchen in a flustered daze. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to come home with Tom for breakfast after all. But right in that moment, there was absolutely no other place he’d rather be.

  His face was burning, and he knew he’d be blushing a furious shade of red. Ah, well, it’s festive, so… Trying to be casual, he turned back to Tom’s mum and sister and smiled, but one look at their faces, the matching expressions—left eyebrow raised, lips pursed—and he knew they knew.

  You’ve got a crush on our Tom, haven’t you?

  Chapter Twelve:

  Don’t Laugh

  Tom flushed the toilet and put the seat down, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he moved to the sink to wash his hands. He backstepped and looked again, properly studying his reflection. It wasn’t something he’d ever done before—try to see himself from someone else’s standpoint. Being blonde…OK, being dark blonde and a bit on the scruffy side, he could get away with only shaving a couple of times a week—sometimes less often than that. He’d also got lucky with having the kind of hair that just needed a quick tousle with gel, or smoothing up into spikes, depending on how he was feeling and what was fashionable.

  But did he have the kind of looks to crush on?

  He’d had girls fancy him and ask him out, and he knew he was in good shape, from physical work, plus he went to the gym three times a week, and he played football. He wasn’t meaty, but he was well toned. When he was younger, he’d had terrible acne, but he had clear skin now, with just a couple of little scars from the worst of the spots and a tiny bald patch in his left eyebrow from the chicken pox. Other than that, his eyebrows were a bit on the bushy side, but they were tidy enough, and his ears looked symmetrical.

  So he was OK looking, he thought, but maybe looks didn’t come into it when it was a crush. He’d had girlfriends, and there were girls he thought were attractive, but he’d never been so overwhelmed by them that the only way he could’ve talked to them was under influence of alcohol. But then, it could just have been the alcohol talking, and Michael didn’t actually have a crush on him at all. Although if that were true, how did he explain the kiss?

  Tom thought back to when they’d worked together, searching his memory for clues. Michael was chatty and said daft things all the time, which meant he blushed an awful lot. Could all that blushing have been because of Tom? No. Don’t be ridiculous. How bigheaded of him to imagine he’d be that important.

  How scary that he might actually be that important.

  There was nothing else for it. They needed to have an honest conversation, lay their cards on the table, because he’d felt bad enough leading Michael on when he’d suggested they kiss under the mistletoe and then discovered Michael had a crush on him. There would be plenty of time to talk today. It would take them about an hour to get to Derry; better still, they would be away from Omagh. Tom smiled, excited to have a plan for the day, and happy that the plan involved spending time with two people whom he loved and respected. With one last glance at his reflection—he’d shaved yesterday, he’d pass muster—Tom returned downstairs, to the warm living room and the big pile of toast on the table.

  “You timed that well,” Katie grumbled on her way from the kitchen with the teapot. Michael followed her in. Tom blinked at him in a
mazement. Michael blushed and stared hard at the five empty mugs dangling from his fingers.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s tacky and awful, but I like it.”

  Tom nodded and held in his laughter. Until now, he’d only seen Michael in his coat, but now he’d taken it off. “Well, it is Christmas.”

  Michael shrugged and pulled his green Christmas jumper with its crazy elf print away from his body so he could look at it. “My mum got it for me a few weeks back,” he said apologetically.

  “It’s grand,” Tom said, going over the top on the sincerity. Everyone knew Christmas jumpers were so uncool they were actually cool.

  “Sit down, boys,” Tom’s mum said, entering the room behind Michael and shuffling him forward. He set the cups down on the table, next to where Katie had left the teapot before commandeering the armchair. She pouted at Tom.

  “I don’t care. I’m gonna sit in front of the fire and block all the heat.”

  His mum was sitting next to his dad—who was, incredibly, still snoring away. It left one seat free at the end of the couch, but Tom could see Michael twitching at the prospect of sharing the couch with two people he’d only just met.

  “Come and sit down here with me,” Tom suggested, patting the rug beside him.

  Michael gave a tiny quiet sigh—the sort that wasn’t meant to be heard by anyone else—and joined Tom in front of the fire.

  “Look.” Tom pulled up a trouser leg, hoping his own mad festive attire might put Michael at his ease. Michael moved closer and squinted. “Press Santa’s belly,” Tom instructed, pointing at the Santa on his ankle. Michael did so, and Tom’s sock started up with ‘Jingle Bells’. Tom moved his feet from side to side, wiggling his toes in time to the music, but the real music was Michael’s laughter. It was a beautiful thing after watching him under constant stress, always on the lookout for his tormentors.

  It was only when his socks stopped their racket that Tom realised he was looking right into Michael’s eyes, and smiling. Michael’s laughter faded, and he smiled back.

  “We should eat some of this toast before it goes cold,” Tom said, but he couldn’t look away, not with those innocent big brown eyes boring deep into his. A lock of hair tumbled free of Michael’s unruly mop, and Tom reached up to brush it from Michael’s face. Someone cleared their throat.

  “Is anyone going to pour the tea?” his mum asked.

  Tom raised an eyebrow at Michael. “By anyone…”

  “She means you,” Michael finished.

  “Aye.” Tom tilted his head towards the plate of toast. “Get eatin’, and we can be on our way.”

  Much as he didn’t want to break eye contact with Michael, he couldn’t very well pour the tea without looking at what he was doing, at least not without scalding himself. He shifted onto his knees and lined up the mugs, trying not to be obvious when he noticed how much toast had been eaten while they’d been playing with his Christmas socks. He watched his mum and dad—who woke him up?—in his peripheral vision, aware that his sister was peering at him over the top of her phone. Had he said something embarrassing? Or done something bad?

  “God, this honey’s amazing,” Michael said, bringing the awkward moment to an instant and welcome end.

  Tom’s mum chuckled. “It’s only from the Co-op.”

  “Must be the Christmas magic,” Tom muttered.

  “The what now?” his mum asked.

  Tom shook his head and smiled. “Nothing, Mum.” He distributed the mugs of tea and took a piece of toast from the rapidly diminishing pile. “Can you pass me the honey, please, Mike?”

  “My honey, you mean?” Michael said, hugging the jar to his chest.

  “I’ll fight you for it.”

  “Will ye?”

  “I will.” Tom made a grab for it, but Michael was too fast. He held the jar up above his head, laughing at Tom’s pretence of not being able to reach.

  “Give me the honey, Michael McFerran.”

  “Say please.”

  “I already did.”

  “Say it again.”

  Tom sighed. “Michael, please can I have the honey?”

  “’Course. You only had to ask.” Still grinning, Michael lowered his arm and held out the jar. Tom delayed a second while he gauged if it was a double bluff. He decided to take a chance. He reached out, his fingers making contact with the cool glass jar and Michael’s warm skin. He heard Michael’s breath catch in his throat.

  Not just the alcohol talking.

  “Thank you,” Tom said, keeping Michael’s gaze a moment longer, willing him to understand that the thanks were for more than parting with the honey, although it was unlikely. The lad was tearing into his toast like he’d not eaten for days, his face a picture of such intense pleasure it was a miracle he wasn’t moaning in ecstasy. With much effort, Tom turned his attention away from Michael and to his cup of tea. His family were still taking far too much notice of them, and he was keen to get going, if for no other reason than that.

  “Oh, God! Tom!” Michael gasped and covered his full mouth with his hand. “I didn’t tell Shay where I was going!”

  “Just give him a call. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  “I haven’t got my phone with me. I don’t take it to church, just in case someone calls me and sets it off vibratin’. Not that I get many calls. Or any, actually.”

  “Use mine.” Tom rolled onto his hip so he could get his phone out of his pocket. He unlocked it and handed it over.

  “Thanks.”

  He watched Michael dial out and then listened to his side of the conversation.

  “Oh… OK… Did he?… OK… Thanks… You too. Bye.” He hung up and frowned. “Patrick told him I was spending the day with you.”

  “Right.” Tom had nothing to say to that, because he had told Seamus’s brother his plans before inviting Michael, and now he felt like he’d done something underhand, when it wasn’t like that.

  “Oh, well, it’s good Shay won’t have been worrying about me,” Michael said with a shrug. He gave the phone back and looked longingly at the last piece of toast, lying lonely and limp in the middle of the enormous plate.

  “Go on,” Tom’s mum encouraged. “You’ve got long legs to fill, so you have.”

  Michael grinned up at her. “Thanks for having me, Jackie and…?” He looked sideways at Tom.

  “My dad’s name?” Tom asked. Michael nodded. “Nick.”

  “And…Nick,” Michael repeated tightly. His eyes widened and a noise like a tiny elephant’s trumpeting came out of his nose.

  “You laughing at me name, son?” Tom’s dad asked. Tom could tell by his face he was only tormenting.

  “No,” Michael squeaked out.

  “Dad,” Tom appealed. He had no idea what had amused Michael, but he was full-on giggling now.

  Tom’s dad shook his head. “I don’t know about you, Michael. You’re a funny one.”

  “I’m sorry,” Michael laugh-cried. “It’s just…Christmas, and…Nick, and…Santa, you know. It’s not even…funny…”

  Tom’s dad nudged his mum. “I tell you what, Jack, it’s a good thing he doesn’t know your maiden name.”

  “Why? What was it?” Michael asked through his giggles.

  Tom sighed. “Before he tells you a pack of lies, it wasn’t Lantern.”

  Michael snorted and doubled over.

  “It was, and you know it,” his dad insisted, keeping a serious face. “God, your own son calling you a liar. What is the world coming to?”

  “It was Langdon,” Tom explained for Michael’s benefit, but it was pointless.

  “Jackie Lantern,” Michael choked out.

  Tom scowled at his dad—all in good fun. His dad was always like this, when he wasn’t hungover. “You do realise every time one of the nurses calls Grandad ‘Mr. Langdon’, Mike’s gonna fall about laughing?”

  “Aye, well, that place could do with a bit of cheering up,” his mum said. She smiled at Tom. “I think it’s lovely you going to
see your grandad today.”

  “If we ever get there. You ready yet, Mike?”

  “Yep.” Michael gulped down his entire mug of tea in one go. “Can I use the bathroom first?”

  “Top of the stairs and turn right.”

  Michael got up and left the room. Tom picked up the empty plate and their two mugs, took them through to the kitchen and turned on the tap.

  “Leave them, love,” his mum said. She’d followed him out.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. You get going. Don’t worry about getting back for dinner. I’ll save you some. Should I save a dinner for Michael as well?”

  “If you don’t mind. I’m not sure he’s wanting to be at the farm today.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on. He told me last night he felt like he was intruding, and they’ve got guests over from America.”

  “That must be tough on him, the poor lad.” She frowned in sympathy and thought for a moment. “Listen, if it suits you, and you want to have a drink later, I don’t mind him staying on the couch.”

  Tom hugged her. “Thanks, Mum. You’re the best.”

  There was the sound of someone running down the stairs, followed by the creak of the living room door.

  His mum released him and, almost instinctively, straightened his shirt collar. “See you later. Have a good time.”

  They returned to the living room, where Michael was standing by the door and looking awkward. Tom ushered him back to the hallway, grabbed his jacket and keys, and led the way out to the car. He made sure Michael was in and then got in himself.

  “Ah, shite. I’ve forgotten the satnav. Won’t be a second.”

  Tom got out of the car again and went back to the house, intending to just grab the satnav from his dad’s coat pocket, but the conversation now taking place in the living room stopped him in his tracks.

  “He’s been open about being friendly with the lad. I can’t see his problem, Jack.”

  “Aye, but that’s just it. They were only being friendly, Nick.”

  “Rubbish. You saw the way they were looking at each other.”