It was nice to imagine, just for a moment, even though he knew they were only friends. And he was OK with that. He still fancied Tom something rotten, but more importantly, he liked him as a person. He was kind, funny, intelligent, generous. Still with his eyes closed, Michael reached up and put his hand around the guardian angel.
“Are you prayin’ there, Mike?”
“I was to start with, and then I went off in a daydream.”
“I thought you might’ve done. Judging by the smile, it was a good one.”
“Um…yeah.” Michael peered sideways without moving his head. Tom was mouthing the lyrics to Paul McCartney’s ‘Wonderful Christmastime’. If only you knew.
Chapter Fourteen:
What’s in a Kiss?
The weather was dank as they passed over the River Foyle, and Tom was trying not to cling to the steering wheel, but it was the first time he’d driven over the bridge, and he was terrified.
“So what’s that over there, then?” Michael asked. It was just one of the many what’s that? questions he’d asked in the past ten minutes, as they’d neared Derry. All of the other times, Tom had been fine with briefly glancing to the side to see what Michael was pointing at—he’d even caught some of those infectious giggles as they both imagined what was entailed in a ‘sponge wash’. It was an ordinary car wash, but the sign with its smiley sponge had amused them.
Now, on the bridge, with that water all the way down there, and then—as the bridge began its decline—the houses with only their roofs showing, Tom was feeling queasy, to say the least. He couldn’t reach the other side of the river soon enough.
The road finally levelled out with its surroundings, and Tom blew air from his mouth.
“You didn’t like that, did you?” Michael said.
“Thanks, Mike. I was trying to be brave and fearless there.”
“Oh, you were so brave and very fearless, I promise ye. But you went a terrible funny colour, so you did.”
Tom blushed, but he was smiling, too. He wasn’t the macho kind, but he usually did a good job of hiding his weaknesses from other people, especially the lads at work, who would only exploit them to gain the upper hand. The way they’d treated Michael was exactly that. And they were so wrong. Michael was much stronger than they realised. He just needed to believe it for himself. But there was nothing wrong with admitting to having weaknesses, too, and Tom didn’t mind at all that Michael had noticed his, because never in a million years would Michael use it to his advantage.
“It’s too high up,” Tom explained. “Watching the road, with the railing flashing by…it’s the whole height difference thing makes me dizzy. If I’d thought on, I’d have crossed further back. It’s lower, and it feels shorter, but this is the way my mum always comes, and I’m all right if I’m not driving.”
“I could drive us over on the way back, if you like.”
“Are you insured?”
“Aye. Seamus got me fully comprehensive, just in case I hit something on the farm. I’ve never had an accident, mind. Although there was the one time when…” Michael sucked air through his teeth. “Dee persuaded me…well, more like blackmailed me into letting her drive the pickup one day, when Seamus and her dad were out. She drove into the side of the new stable block.”
“Oh, hell. Was she all right? Were you all right?”
“Yeah, we were OK. I got a bit of a burn off the seat belt, which I had to keep to meself, because I was supposed to have been driving, wasn’t I? And it was on the wrong shoulder.”
Tom laughed and shook his head. “She’s a cheeky monkey, isn’t she?”
“Yeah. She likes to push the boundaries, that’s for sure. But I was like that when I was fourteen.”
“God yes, so was I. What’s this about her blackmailing you?”
“Oh, you know. It was a good thing. She said if I didn’t let on she’d been driving, she’d teach me how to ride a horse.”
“Sounds like a good deal.”
“Aye. And Seamus was fine about the pickup. It only had a smashed light. So now we just need to get some more horses. Or a donkey, maybe. They’re huge. Horses, I mean. Not donkeys. Something a wee bit more placid than the crazy beast Dee rides.”
“Is Dee good?”
“Amazing. She does rodeo.”
“Yeah, I sort of picked that up on Facebook. She shares a lot of videos.”
“On my wall,” Michael complained. “They’re like little reminders of our agreement, just in case I’m thinking of changing my mind. Which I’m not. Seamus’d be fuming if I admitted I’d lied to him, and Chancey scares the bejeebus out of me.”
Tom had taken in Michael’s words, but they’d arrived at the nursing home, so he didn’t respond yet. “Here we are.”
They drove into the car park, and Michael was all eyes, turning in his seat to look out of each window in turn.
“You looking for a parking space, Mike?” Tom tormented. There were hardly any cars there at all.
“Does no one come visiting at Christmas, then?”
“I don’t think they do. I suppose most people have got kids to think about.”
“That’s really sad.”
Tom pulled into a parking space, subtly studying Michael, who had become quiet and thoughtful. He seemed to have shrunk with his thoughts.
“But we’re here, so,” Tom said, giving him a friendly nudge. Michael smiled.
“True enough. Hey, thanks for bringing me along.”
Tom tutted. “Thank you for agreeing to come.” They’d already done that exchange enough times for it to almost be a standing joke. He got out of the car and waited for Michael to join him before they walked over to the building, side by side.
“This place is grand for the speech therapy and physio,” Tom said. “I should tell you a bit more, then you’ll know what to expect. My grandad understands everything we’re saying to him, and he can think the words, but he can’t say them back. He gets very frustrated.”
“Wow. That’s like…being gagged.”
“Aye, it’s exactly like that. So if he gets cross with you, don’t take it personally.”
“OK.” Michael was frowning hard, and his dark eyebrows almost met in the middle.
“Mike, you don’t have to be so serious.”
Michael frowned harder. “I don’t wanna mess up,” he said.
Tom patted him on the back and ushered him into the visitors’ foyer. He rang the bell and waited. He liked this nursing home better than the first one his grandad had been sent to after he left the hospital. The other place stank of urine and disinfectant and was much smaller. This place felt more like a hotel, and the smells were of food and coffee, with added festive aromas of the pine tree they were standing next to and a spiced plug-in air freshener.
The intercom crackled, and a voice said, “Hello?”
“Hi. I’m here to see Tom Langdon.”
The door buzzed, and Tom pushed it open, letting Michael go through first. A couple of the nursing staff were chatting in the hallway, and they paused to look Tom and Michael’s way.
“You’re Tom’s grandson, aren’t you?” one of the nurses asked. He didn’t recognise her, but the other nurse he’d seen a few times before. He thought she might be a manager.
“That’s right,” he confirmed. “I’m Tom as well. And this is my friend Michael.”
“You’re the spitting image of your grandad,” the nurse said, which explained why she was staring at him so hard.
“How’s he doing today?”
“Oh, he’s having a great day, Tom. Absolutely smashing. Does he know you’re coming?”
“No. I thought I’d surprise him. Are we OK to go up?”
“Sure. I think he’s in the TV lounge. That’s where he was when I was up there ten minutes ago.”
“I’ll find him soon enough. A Merry Christmas to you.” He gave each woman a kiss on the cheek and moved off, checking Michael was following and stifling a laugh when Michael smiled shyly a
t the two nurses and then almost ran to catch up.
Once they were in the lift, Michael said, “You’re so laid back with everyone.”
“Am I?”
“Well you just kissed them two women, and you don’t even know them.”
“I sort of know one of them.”
“Aye, but still. I couldn’t do that.”
Tom squeezed his lips together, fighting back a smile.
Michael’s eyes narrowed. “What’ve I said now?”
“Nothing, Mike.”
“But I’ve done something funny.”
“Not really. I was thinking, you ‘just’ kissed me.”
“I was drunk.”
“So you wouldn’t have kissed me if you’d been sober?”
“I…um… Can we talk about something else, please?”
The lift stopped and the doors opened.
“Sure we can.” Tom motioned with his hand for Michael to step out of the lift and then followed a few steps behind, trying to push the question from his mind. What did it matter if the answer was yes or no? It was only a kiss under the mistletoe. He’d had plenty of those. Except this one…
“I’ve no clue where I’m going,” Michael said, glancing back over his shoulder at Tom.
“Up to the top and right,” Tom directed distractedly. Michael marched to the end of the corridor and waited. Tom’s eyes went straight to that curl that seemed to forever be getting in Michael’s face. “Does it not drive you mad?” he asked.
“What?”
Tom reached out with his finger, but then changed his mind and placed it jerkily on his own forehead, tracing the shape of the curl.
“Oh. No. I don’t even notice, to be honest. Where to now?”
“Just through here.” Tom took the lead and peered around the door of the TV lounge, to check his grandad was in there. He was. “He’s over there,” he said, pointing him out for Michael’s benefit.
“Wow. That nurse was right. You look just like him. Except for the grey hair, obviously.”
“I haven’t got grey hair.”
Michael opened his mouth, set to explain, but then closed it again and grinned. “You’re such a torment.”
Tom laughed. “Come on, then. Let’s go see the old fella. All right, Grandad?” he called on his way across the room.
His grandad’s crooked smile appeared before he lifted his head. “Tom,” he said—one of the few words unaffected by his stroke. He struggled to his feet, pushing up with his left hand on the arm of the chair, while his right hand hung limply in front of him. He gave Tom a one-armed hug and kissed his cheek.
“Merry Christmas, Grandad.” They released each other, and his grandad nodded and smiled. Tom gestured at Michael. “This is my friend Mike. We used to work together at O’Grady’s—when did you finish there, Mike?”
“Oh, um…just over a year ago.”
“Was it really?” Tom was surprised. It felt longer, but then so much had happened—some good, like getting the supervisor job after Seamus left, some bad, like his grandad’s stroke and his dad being made redundant. In fact, there was a lot more bad than good, but it didn’t seem to matter so much today.
While Tom’s thoughts had taken him on a wander, Michael had stepped forward, shaken hands with ‘Mr. Langdon’ and been told in one-word but very certain terms that it was ‘Tom’, not ‘Mr. Langdon’.
“Might get a bit confusin’,” Michael reasoned. “I say, ‘Hey, Tom,’ and yous both go, ‘What?’”
Tom and his grandad laughed.
“And I’ll totally forget what I was gonna say, so…” Michael grinned.
“We’ve always had that problem, haven’t we, Grandad?”
His grandad nodded and tried to say something. Tom listened and processed the sounds. “Your room?” His grandad nodded again and unhooked his walking stick from the arm of the chair. On the way, he tried several times to explain why, but the words weren’t there and, with an apologetic shrug, he gave up. Tom made eye contact with Michael, who offered him a smile that instantly reassured him everything was fine.
When they reached Grandad’s room, Michael stepped ahead and held the door open; Grandad paused to reach up and pat Michael’s shoulder in thanks.
“No problem,” Michael said.
Tom followed his grandad in, and mouthed at Michael, He likes you. It made Michael beam with pride—for a moment, until he closed the door and did a double-take. His mouth fell open.
“Wow! This is like a studio flat.”
“It’s a rehabilitation room,” Tom explained. “There’s a bathroom with rails, pull handles on the plugs, and loads of things like that. And you’ve got the kitchenette there, with the sink, kettle and microwave, and the occupational therapist comes in—once a week, is it, Grandad?”
“Two.”
“Right. They come twice a week and…” Tom trailed off. His grandad was shaking his head. “Every two weeks?”
His grandad nodded to confirm and pointed to the kettle.
“Yeah, that’s right. They help you relearn to make drinks and cook meals and stuff, don’t they?”
His grandad huffed in frustration and sat down.
“What is it?” Tom asked, trying to contain his own frustration. Even after all these months—and Grandad had improved massively—it still tore him apart, watching the strong, independent man he had admired all his life struggle to do all the little things everyone took for granted, like making himself understood.
“Did you want a cup of tea, Tom?” Michael asked.
Tom’s grandad gave Michael a thumbs-up.
“I’ll do that, then.” He filled the kettle and switched it on.
“Teabags are in the cupboard to your left,” Tom said.
“OK. And mugs?”
“Same place.”
“Got ’em.” Michael glanced back. “You carry on. I’ve got everything in hand.”
Feeling a bit redundant, Tom sat on the chair across from his grandad, who was watching Michael. “I was telling Mike about your poetry, Grandad.”
His grandad looked across to the dresser next to the bed, and Tom spotted the book on top. “Can I show him?” A nod. He fetched the book, pausing with his back turned and the book between his palms. He was feeling emotional—not sad, as such, more wistful. He brought the book over and sat down again, thumbing through to his favourite poem, marked as always with the red ribbon. He read over the three verses that he knew off by heart yet still marvelled at seeing the letters on the page, the pattern formed by the twelve lines, the emotion woven through the words. It was a poem about hope—and independence, of course. But mostly what Tom felt in those words was hope.
Michael brought the tea over and set the cups down on the side tables next to the chairs.
“Sit here, Mike,” Tom said, already half out of the chair.
“Oh, no. I’ll sit on the stool.” Before Tom could say anything—like ‘it’s broken’—Michael had pulled the stool over and sat on it. The broken leg gave way, and Michael jolted forward. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I’m such a—”
“Broke,” Tom’s grandad said, shaking his head at Tom.
“Here, Mike. I’ll budge up a bit.” Tom hadn’t deliberately not warned him, but he still felt mean. Witnessing Connor’s cruelty had made Tom more aware of his own actions, although Michael didn’t seem to have noticed. He squeezed his slender form into the chair next Tom. It was very…cosy. “Look at this, Mike.” He passed the poetry book over.
Michael read the poem, frowned, and started from the top of the page again.
“Yous two are so clever. It’s a brilliant poem, but some of the words…what does compli…complicity mean?”
“Guilt.”
“Gotcha. So this is saying when we stop feeling guilty about the past, everything will work out OK.”
Tom blinked at Michael. “And you say we’re clever?”
“Did I get it right?”
“Aye, but it’s not a test.”
“I know, but the only poems I’ve ever read were the ones we were made to read at school.”
“I get you. So you like it, then?”
“I do! And now I know a published poet. How cool is that?”
Tom’s grandad gave Michael a pleased smile and then raised his finger. A thought had occurred to him. He stooped down and reached under the table with his good hand, trying to pick something up and in the process pushing newspapers and puzzle books onto the floor. But he wasn’t one to give up that easily, and after a few seconds of grunting and looking like he might fall out of his chair—Tom was on the edge of his seat, ready to leap to his grandad’s aid—he finally held up two selection boxes. Tom grinned.
“Yes! Thanks, Grandad. For me and our baby?”
His grandad nodded at Michael.
“No way!” Michael said. “I haven’t had a selection box since…last Christmas!” He was grinning, too.
Tom handed over the gift bag he’d brought with him, keeping hold of it while his grandad pulled out the contents: a bottle of port, a mini wheel of blue Stilton cheese and a packet of oat crackers. Tom bought him the same thing every year, because Grandad said it wasn’t Christmas without his port and Stilton. Likewise, he always gave Tom and Katie a selection box each and some money, with strict instructions to buy something they really wanted with it, even if that meant waiting until the new year.
With gifts exchanged, they spent a couple of hours chatting, which mainly meant Tom asking questions that required only yes or no as an answer, and Michael telling Tom senior all about work on old Barry’s farm. After his worries that he’d ‘mess up’, he seemed at ease, chattering away to Grandad and somehow accurately interpreting every one of the nods and half words. They stayed until four o’clock, when it was starting to go dark, and the time had flown by. It had been a good visit.
“So Mum and Dad’ll be up to see you tomorrow, Grandad. Not sure what time.” Tom leaned down and gave him a hug. “I think I know what I’m going to spend the money on, but—” He took a deep breath, surprised to feel it catch in his throat. All of a sudden he had so many plans, and all these thoughts in his head that were new and confusing. “I need to talk it through with a couple of people first,” he finished.
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