‘Well, I’ll drink to that!’ Frank announces, and there’s more clinking of glasses and wine is topped up. And so the evening goes on, with good-natured teasing and Eddie chatting excitedly about how it’ll be to flat-share with Calum and Raj, his oldest mates, who I suspect he’s missed more than he’s admitted. Eventually, after a couple of large red wines, even Dad relaxes a little, and by the time we step out into the bitterly cold night, my worries have subsided. It was a bit sudden, that’s all. Coming home from work today, this was the last thing I expected.
‘So you really think he’s up to this, do you?’ Dad glances at me as I drive him home.
‘Of course he is.’ It’s a reasonable question but it still irks me.
‘The girls just seemed a lot more organised, that’s all,’he adds. ‘This has all happened in a bit of a rush, hasn’t it?’
‘Well, the opportunity just came up,’ I say, trying to remain patient. ‘But yes, Bella was organised. We all know what she’s like, Dad …’
‘Yes, she’s a sensible kid with her head screwed on,’ he remarks – the implication being that Eddie’s isn’t. That the minute he’s out of parental jurisdiction, it might topple off. He’s right, though, in that Bella had planned her move to London with military precision. It felt as if she’d barely unpacked in her new house-share before she’d found a gym, a local food market and signed up with a dentist. I can’t imagine Eddie doing that unless all his teeth fall out.
‘Ana was more chaotic,’ I remind Dad. ‘She was still cramming clothes into bin bags on the day we were driving her over to Dundee. And she stole our cheese from the fridge and her dad’s old denim jacket!’ I’m trying to lighten the mood, to make the point that his three grandchildren are all different, and all equally wonderful in their own ways. His blatant favouring of the girls always riles me. But he merely grunts, and as I turn off the main road and into his cul-de-sac, I realise there’s no point in discussing it any further.
As I park up, I remember the day Ana moved into halls in Dundee. We’d stopped off at a supermarket en route, as I’d wanted to make sure she had plenty of nutritious food in, to start off her new life as an art student. But she showed zero interest in the fruit and veg I was loading into our trolley, and I suspected it would all wither before being thrown away. Ana seems to exist on cheese on toast and Pringles – yet somehow I always know she’ll be okay.She hugged us cheerfully as we were about to leave her in halls, announcing that she’d forgotten her DMs and could I post them to her?
‘I’m sure Eddie will befine, Dad,’ I say as I see him upstairs to his flat. It’s not ideal, a man of eighty-four living alone on the second floor with no lift. But he loves his little flat, so who am I to argue?
‘Let’s hope so,’ he says gruffly.
I muster a smile and hug him briefly, which he tolerates, and then trot lightly downstairs and back out into the night.
The moon is shining pearly bright. Before climbing into my car I stop for a moment, just to take it all in: not only the silvery reflection on the calm sea, but the enormity of what’s happened today.
Tomorrow will be the start of something wonderful, I can feel it. Not just for Eddie – but also for Frank and me. Perhaps this really is the beginning of my second act.
Chapter Five
And the next day he’s off. When Eddie asked for ‘a lift’ he actually meant, ‘Move the entirety of my possessions all the way across Scotland after a full day’s work.’ But of course that’s fine. We’d have driven him to Finland if it meant assisting our son on his first rung of proper independent living. And now, as we park as close as we can to Eddie’s new Edinburgh home, I’m grateful that Frank and I are doing this together because, actually, I feel quite choked and emotional as this is really it. Our last child is finally moving out.
Dad wasn’t involved when I left home. He hadn’t offered to help, and Mum and I hadn’t wanted him there. Although I was only moving from Glasgow’s Southside, where I’d lived with Mum, to a house-share with friends in the West End, it still felt like a momentous occasion. The unspoken message was that the two of us wanted to tackle – and savour – it together. Mum was a tiny, bird-like woman and her many admirable qualities hadn’t includedphysical strength. However, together we’d lugged my numerous boxes upstairs to the top flat, and afterwards we’d cracked open the bottle of cava she’d bought as a celebration.
‘It’s lovely around here,’ I enthuse now as Frank and I help to carry Eddie’s worldly goods along the street. We’re close to The Meadows, in what looks like a charming neighbourhood on this sparkly, snow-dusted evening.
‘Yeah, it’s great,’ he enthuses. We pass a cosy-looking bistro, an independent bookshop and a grocer’s specialising in French delicacies.Delicious salted butter from Brittany,reads the chalkboard in the window.
‘Is it much further?’ I ask, my arms starting to ache now.
‘Next street,’ replies Eddie. In fact, my box – with a skateboard balanced on it – is becoming heavier by the second. Even Frank, who’s strong and muscular, lets out a groan over the weight of his load.
‘What’s in this? House bricks, Eddie?’ he calls out to our son, who’s marching ahead – carrying only a pillow, I notice now.
‘Just stuff! Not much further!’
Frank catches my eye and we smirk, exchanging a silent message:This is it. Finally, this is it.Although it turns out that Eddie’s flat isn’t in the next street; somehow he misread Google Maps. And now, instead of bistros and French delicatessens there’s a deserted chippie with a smashed window and a shabby takeaway with two men arguing loudly inside. Finally, just as it feels as if my arms are ready to pop out of their sockets, Eddie stops abruptly and announces, ‘This is it!’
‘Thank God for that.’ Frank exhales loudly as we set down the boxes at the shabby front door. Beside it, the entry system has numerous buttons and handwritten stickers denoting flat numbers and multiple surnames. Eddie peers at it and jabs at a button, and a moment later we’re buzzed in.
Lit by a grubby sealed wall light filled with flies, the hallway is cluttered with bikes and packing crates. Flyers are scattered all over the chipped floor tiles. ‘Top floor,’ Eddie tells us, and obediently we lug the boxes upstairs.
The flat door opens, and here’s Raj, clearly delighted to see his old mate. ‘Hey, come in!’ he enthuses, and there’s a flurry of hugs and backslaps as we all step into the musty-smelling flat, grateful to dump Eddie’s possessions in the hallway.
As if Kilmory Cottage hadn’t been full enough already, Raj and Calum were near-permanent additions for meals and movie nights when the boys were younger. I loved that stage, before teenage hormones kicked in – when our kitchen was full of young people, all chatting happily around the table while I dished up lasagne from a giant tray. The kids had so many sleepovers that sometimes it felt as if we were running a small hotel.
‘Let me show you around,’ Raj enthuses.
‘This is great, Raj!’ I say, my gaze skimming the hallway’s peeling wallpaper and cracked ceiling. Posters have been tacked up haphazardly, and an assortment of trainers have been kicked off in a corner.
‘Yeah. We love it.’ Raj beams. ‘This is your room, Eddie.’
