Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  “Perfect,” Tom said to himself and sprayed his palm, rubbing it against the other before transferring the cool liquid to his chin and cheeks. “Hoo. My God.” He did the stinging-face jig and took a few deep breaths. The sting faded, leaving a tingling burn. He put the aftershave back in the cabinet and checked his reflection, tugging at his hair to refresh the short spikes. He wanted everything to be just right.

  Back to his room for his phone and his jacket, Tom was ready, but it was only half past twelve, and he’d told Michael one o’clock, at the earliest. He went downstairs to the living room to wait, nicking a slice of cold beef off his dad’s plate.

  “Hey, get your own,” his dad complained without taking his eyes off the TV.

  “I’m not actually hungry,” Tom said, plucking strings from the meat and nibbling at them. He perched on the sofa arm closest to the door. “Where’s Mum?”

  “Gone over to see Mrs. Thingy.”

  “Who?”

  “You know. That woman across the way. She’s had her hip done.”

  “Right.” Tom had no idea who his dad meant. With the exception of the Buchanans next door, all their neighbours were getting on a bit, so it could have been any one of them. “I like that aftershave. Who bought you that?”

  “Aunty Annie.”

  That explained it, then. Aunty Annie—his dad’s sister—lived in London, and she was loaded. Or rather, her husband was loaded. He worked for one of the big banks, and their flat cost three million pounds. Three million for a one-bedroom flat. It was madness. Tom had never understood it. He’d not really given much thought to it, but now, when he was trying to find ways to pass the time, to not say anything about what was on his mind…

  “I wanted to ask you something, Dad.” Damn.

  “Did you now?” His dad still didn’t look away from the telly.

  “You know what Peter said about Michael?”

  “Which part specifically?”

  “The conversion therapy.”

  At the words, his dad’s jaw tightened. He picked up a pickled onion and shoved it into his mouth. It crunched and squelched, and he shuddered. “Strong, them onions.”

  “He couldn’t do it against Michael’s will, could he?” The idea had been torturing Tom ever since his dad mentioned it.

  “I highly doubt it.”

  Tom sighed shakily, and his dad looked his way.

  “You’re looking very handsome today,” he said.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “You really like him, don’t you?”

  Tom nodded. “I was lying awake last night, thinking… Shouldn’t I feel confused about this? I mean… Oh, I don’t know what I mean.” He shrugged helplessly. But the only thing that was confusing him was how certain he was about how he felt. “You’re not bothered?”

  “What’s it got to do with me? So long as you’re happy, I don’t give a monkey’s.”

  “It’s only…with Peter being like he is. I forget sometimes you and Mum are the most chilled-out parents ever.”

  His dad chortled and bit into a gherkin. “Mmm. God, I love Christmas.” Tom raised an eyebrow. “You know what your Gran and Grandad Donnan were like about me and your mum, don’t you?”

  “Because of her dad, you mean?”

  “Aye. And it was nothing to do with them. So even if I wasn’t happy about you having feelings for a lad—and like I say, so long as you’re happy—I wouldn’t stand in your way.”

  Tom nodded, considering his dad’s words. Not ‘approval’ as such. Acceptance. Which was exactly how he’d been with Katie and her boyfriend.

  “Right, I’m going over to Michael’s. I’ll be back… I’ve no idea. Late, probably. But I’ve got my key.”

  “All right, son. You have a good time, now.”

  “I will. See you later.”

  Tom got up and opened the door.

  “If you want to keep that aftershave, you can, you know.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Smells better on you than in the bottle.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Bye.” Tom closed the door, smiling to himself as he walked down the path to his car, but at the same time bracing himself for what he’d find today. It had been nothing permanent—‘cocksucker’ written in bright-pink lipstick on the door, and a scratch that needed a professional touch-up, but he couldn’t even see where it had been now. And all that simply because he stood up for Michael. Of course, there was no way of proving it was Connor, but who else could it be? Sure, he’d told Michael that Connor was a coward. He was. But he had his Uncle Martin on his side, and that bothered Tom far more—now he had a reason to keep an even closer eye on Michael, but he also needed to watch his step, if it wasn’t already too late.

  Today, there was…nothing. Tom deactivated the car alarm and got in. He’d need to see how things were with his job before he got those new alloys fitted. But for now…

  “I’ve got a hot date,” he sang to a tune that matched no song ever written—yet. “Hot date, hot date…I hope he likes this aftershave.” He broke out of song. “What if he’s allergic? I should’ve checked. But then, that’s assuming we…” Tom’s cheeks started to burn, and this time it was nothing to do with the aftershave. He shook the too-wonderful thought from his head and, with a quick check of his reflection in the rear-view mirror, pulled his seat belt around him, started the engine, and away he went.

  <<<>>>

  “All right, Tom. How’re you doing, mate?” Seamus greeted him, opening the door wide.

  “I’m great, thanks, Seamus. Yourself?”

  “Not bad at all. Did Santa bring you anything nice?”

  Tom couldn’t stop the grin from forming. A special friendship, maybe more. “I got new alloys for the Astra.”

  Seamus nodded. “Sounds snazzy. Mike’s not back yet, but you’re welcome to stay. Do you want a drink?”

  “A glass of water’d be grand, actually. I ate a slice of salt beef before I came out, and it’s made me really thirsty.”

  “Salt beef?” Seamus mused aloud while he fetched a glass and filled it with water. He handed it to Tom. “I think I’ll be coming to your place meself next Christmas.”

  Tom smiled. “Thanks, Shay.” He followed Seamus through to the living room, his heart speeding up as he passed under the mistletoe in the hallway.

  “Sit wherever, Tom,” Seamus invited and sat down himself on one of the two sofas, next to Chancey, Tom assumed, though they had not been formally introduced. He glanced across to the other sofa, where Dee and Patrick were sitting with space between them for one more. Tom opted for the chair instead and tried to drink his water slowly, but he had quite a thirst from the beef, which was strange. He’d not eaten that much. His throat was hurting a bit, too. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with something—he had work tomorrow. But he didn’t want to think about that.

  “What did you get for Christmas, Seamus?” he asked.

  “Loads of little things, you know—smellies, chocolates, a titanium and onyx body bar, new shirt, socks…loads of socks, actually…”

  Tom was listening, but at the same time he was distracted by watching Seamus. He’d changed from when he was their supervisor, kind of tougher yet softer at the same time. He wondered what Seamus would have done about Connor if he’d still been in charge, or not in charge, which was precisely Tom’s problem. If he’d had the power as supervisor to hire and fire, he’d have sacked Connor and the others weeks ago. But even if he’d had that power, Connor’s job would have been safe by virtue of who he was.

  The film showing on the TV ended, and Patrick got up and stretched. “I’m gonna go check on the drunkard,” he said and ambled out of the room. Chancey turned and said something to Seamus that Tom didn’t catch.

  “Still hungover,” Seamus replied. Chancey nodded once and said no more. Tom sipped his water. He felt a wee bit uncomfortable being there when he was Michael’s guest, especially now Patrick had left the room. He had a kind of aura about him that put Tom—and seemi
ngly everyone else—at ease. Perhaps Chancey was always stony, Tom didn’t know, and in any case both Seamus and Chancey were paying him no heed. Only Dee seemed aware he was still there, and a moment later she darted from the room.

  “Mike’s back,” Seamus said.

  Chancey sighed and then yelled, “Deidra!”

  Tom heard her shriek and saw Seamus trying to contain his laughter.

  “That girl,” Chancey muttered and shouted her again, even louder than the last time.

  “I’m coming!” Dee shouted back, and then Michael stumbled into the room, having clearly been pushed from behind.

  “See. Told you he was in here.” Dee stepped to Michael’s side and grinned.

  Tom offered a smile, and got a brief and feeble attempt of one in response. Michael looked done in.

  “Are you all right?” Tom asked.

  “Yeah. I, um… Toilet.” He turned around and left the room.

  “If that bastard has upset him…” Seamus growled.

  Tom was thinking exactly the same thing.

  “He was OK before,” Dee said.

  “Before he saw I was here?” Tom asked.

  “Um…kinda. Can I talk to you for a second?” She beckoned with her fingers and backstepped out of the doorway into the hall.

  “Deidra,” Chancey said in a warning tone.

  Tom got up hesitantly and followed her outside. She flicked her hair back and folded her arms.

  “Dad thinks I’m boy crazy.”

  Tom nodded, not sure what he could say to that. In his experience, all fourteen-year-old girls were boy crazy.

  “Yep, so…you and Michael are together now?”

  “Er, well…” Tom fidgeted and studied the floor, the skirting board, the pattern on the wallpaper, anything but look Dee in the eye.

  “You are, or you’re not?”

  “It’s too early to say.”

  “But he likes you. Like, really likes you.”

  “Yes. I know. He told me.”

  Dee huffed out of her nose, as if Tom should know precisely what she was talking about. He chanced a glance her way and saw her unbuttoning her shirt. One, two… He put his back to her before she got any further.

  “Dee, could you stop, please? Only your dad is going to kill at least one of us.”

  “Jesus. I’m not taking it off. Will you turn around?”

  Tom did as she asked.

  “And open your eyes,” Dee ordered.

  He opened one and peeked. Her shirt was fastened again and she had something in her hand. A folded paper square. He opened the other eye.

  “No more stripping off, all right?” he said.

  “You’re as ridiculous as Michael. Here.” She thrust the paper at him. He instinctively backed off.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a letter. For you.”

  “From Michael?”

  “No. From Santa to thank you for the cookies.” She poked the paper into his hand. “Read it.”

  “Does he know?”

  “I guess so. He wrote it, after all.”

  Tom tried not to sigh. It was a while since he’d had to deal with teenaged girls, the last one being his sister, and Dee’s moves were no different. He asked again, this time slowly and clearly, avoiding any possible ambiguity. “Does Michael know you’re giving me this letter?”

  “Yes…he…does,” Dee replied. She folded her arms again and watched him.

  He held the folded square, terrified to open it, unsure what he would find. What if Michael had realised how boring Tom was and his crush had passed? Or maybe he’d decided he wasn’t ready to date. Or Peter had persuaded him to—

  “Would you read it already?” Dee said.

  “Er, could I have a bit of privacy?” Tom asked curtly, his need to read now surpassing his reluctance. Because if Peter had won him over, he was about to lose Michael in the worst possible way.

  The door behind Tom opened, and Chancey loomed large and formidable, casting a big dark shadow over the both of them.

  “Get in here,” he said.

  Tom hoped he was talking to Dee. He needed to read. Now. “Excuse me,” he mumbled and dodged around her to get to the kitchen. He closed the door and scrabbled to unfold the paper. Handwritten, and neat, too. Now if he could just stop his hands shaking so he could get the words in focus. He leaned over a countertop, pressing his forearms to the sharp edge of the cool surface, stilling the tremors enough to stop the words swimming on the page.

  Dear Tom,

  I never wrote to anyone before. Sorry for spellings – pen’s not got autocorrect! And I only got a C in English, so I hope you can read this OK.

  Michael’s English was good enough for Tom. He re-read the first paragraph, delaying what he was sure was going to be, at best, a gentle let-down. How was it possible for these feelings to have consumed him so quickly?

  Thanks for letting me spend Christmas Day with you. I had an amazing time. Meeting your grandad was like meeting someone famous. I found some of his poems online last night and sent them to my mum. She thinks they’re grand.

  Also thanks for saying yes when I asked you out. I know you’re only doing it to be kind. I’m excited about going out with you – it’s a dream come true even though it’s only dinner. When we worked together, I daydreamed all the time about us really going out with each other as boyfriends—

  Now he came to think on it, was it really that quick, or had he felt something for Michael way back then? He didn’t know—what was happening to him now seemed to have erased his memory of his life before that kiss under the mistletoe. It was only a kiss, a drunken kiss. He shivered reliving it, and he had relived it so often in the past thirty-six hours—is that all it’s been?—he’d lost count. It had turned into something bigger, more significant, not a drunken stumble and brush of lips, but a kiss that made stars explode and dimmed everything in existence.

  God, you’re a sucker for the old romance, Tom. Get a grip. He came back down to Earth and once again homed in on Michael’s letter.

  — I daydreamed all the time about us really going out with each other as boyfriends, and I knew it could never happen with you liking girls. I’ve got all my hopes up now and I’m making a big thing out of it in my head. It’s just dinner together. Ignore me. I’ll get it straight again soon enough.

  But then –

  You said all those things about wanting to cuddle and hold hands with me. And I don’t know what to think now. So confusing for a dope like me. Sorry.

  Anyway. If you woke up this morning realising it was all in the heat of the moment, that’s OK. I just want us to be friends. I hope what I did on Christmas Eve hasn’t messed everything up. I mean, I’d like more, but I don’t want us to stop being friends because things are awkward. So we can just forget about what you said if it’s easier.

  Love n hugs

  Michael x

  p.s. My guardian angel is the best thing anyone ever gave me. Without him I wouldn’t even be writing this letter!

  Tom looked up, frowned, and started laughing in sheer disbelief—and relief. The letter was the reassurance he’d needed that he wasn’t making a total idiot of himself. Now he needed to return the favour.

  Chapter Nineteen:

  Shenanigans

  Has she given him the letter? Has he read it and done a runner? Michael paced the lambing shed and clutched at his hair. Tess was watching him—left…right…left…right—from where she perched on the hay bales he recalled so clearly now from Christmas Eve. He and Tom had sat and talked about being friends, about Christmas, about Tom’s grandad, about Michael not feeling welcome at the farm. Then they’d spent a magical day together, and suddenly Tom was saying the stuff Michael had only dreamed he’d ever hear. Maybe he didn’t say any of that. Oh, God, I shouldn’t have written to him. He’ll be long gone by now, and I need to explain.

  Tess hopped down from the hay bale and scooted across Michael’s path, almost tripping him in her haste to run to the do
or, which opened, slowly. A head cautiously peeped through the gap. Dark-blonde hair, greenest green eyes, a broad russet-lipped smile.

  “Oh, good. You’re here. Dee said you were.”

  He didn’t leave. Thank you, God. Michael released his hair and a pent-up breath. So, Tom was still here. But had he read the letter?

  “Hey.” Michael tried to sound light and cheery, at the same time gauging Tom’s body language. He seemed on edge.

  “Hey,” Tom replied. He remained near the door, where Tess was on her hind legs, resting her front paws on Tom’s belly, her tail remaining still while she accepted an ear rub.

  “So…” Michael had rehearsed about ten different ways of starting this conversation, all of them touring right around the houses before he got to what he needed to say. In the end, he cut to the chase. “Did you read my letter?”

  “Yes,” Tom answered. His tone was dead serious. He patted Tess, and she dropped down onto all four paws. Tom put his hands in his pockets and stayed where he was. Michael couldn’t read him at all, had no idea if he was relieved, angry, getting set to say what he needed to and leave—that would certainly explain why he had remained near the door. But this was ‘on with the new’. The letter wasn’t about reassurance, or it was a bit. It was clarification. He wanted to be with Tom—had wanted it for more than a year—and what Tom had said yesterday made it clear that he wanted to at least spend a bit of time getting to know Michael, felt some kind of attraction. But that was yesterday. Today…

  “When I woke up this morning, with Dee in me bed, Chancey ripped a piece off me for saying sorry for who I am. And I decided. Today is the day I’m going to stop being a dope who has no clue what’s going on, who says sorry rather than causing trouble, who feels bad for other people because he isn’t who they want him to be.”