Frank sat up, pushing back his hair and trying to look normal. ‘Yeah. Don’t worry, I’m nearly finished up.’ He feigned a jovial tone and sensed his body relaxing as his friend left the building.
And now his body feels as if it’s been run over by said tractor as he wakes in the musty sleeping bag on the floor of the truck. With some difficulty, as if he is ninety years old rather than a mere fifty, he gets up and heads to the garage where he lets himself in and has a thorough strip-wash in the cramped bathroom.
He pulls on clean boxers, then one of the two pairs of joggers and a T-shirt he bought from the supermarket, having crept in there at ten to ten – just before closing – to stock up on essentials. Shaving foam, disposable razors, deodorant, liquid soap, a big bottle of water and basicfood supplies. Like preparing for the camping trip they went on to Arran, when the kids were little.
Frank shaves now, wondering how much longer he can get away without washing his hair. Didn’t Ana go through a phase of not washing hers, when she first went to art school? ‘It self-cleanses!’ she’d announced, tossing back lank, greasy locks on a visit home. ‘No chemicals, no plastic waste. Much better for the environment!’ Carly had joked that, when she’d finally washed it, she’d have gunked up the entire plumbing system of Dundee.
And now Frank watches the water swill away down the plughole in the tiny grubby sink, used only by men in oily overalls. He thinks of Carly at home, having her shower, calling out goodbye to Kenny and Eddie and heading off to the library.
Frank, please. Where are you? Come home.
Okay I accept you need space or whatever but I need to know where you are!
So worried, Frank. Are you at a hotel?
As he fills the kettle he rereads all the messages that have pinged in over the past seven days. He’s replied to most of them.I’m fine. Please don’t worry.
Are you at work? Can I come to the garage?she asked a few days ago.
Please don’t,he replied.
Why not?
I can’t talk about things with the guys here.
Meet me somewhere then?
He couldn’t do that, and he still can’t. Because Frank has gone from losing it, in a fit of temper, to feeling stupid and ashamed.
At least there have been no messages from Bella and Ana. This means Carly hasn’t told them yet, which he’s relieved about. Nothing from Eddie either, whodoesknow – and this hurts him.
It just shows, he decides, making his mug of tea, that he made the right decision in getting out of their hair.
So Frank gets stuck into his work, feigning jollity when Peter Crow comes to pick up his tractor and even sitting outside, on folding chairs, having a sandwich with Dev in the warm August sun. The afternoon goes quickly. Dev is out, servicing a farm vehicle in situ and, taking advantage of the boss’s absence, the other guys have snuck off early to enjoy the late afternoon sun.
Exhausted now, Frank can’t face retreating to the truck on such a beautiful afternoon. So he pulls off his overalls and heads to the beach himself. And there, in the distance, he spots Carly and Kenny, walking side by side. They seem to be watching a dog running in and out of the sea.
Frank observes them at a distance, sensing an ease between them that he doesn’t remember being aware of before. Carly even links her arm in his. A father and daughter, looking out over the peaks of Goat Fell on Arran. The ferry with its red and black funnel, edging closer as it comes into the port.
It’s me,Frank decides, walking away from them now.I must be the problem. They’re getting along so much better now I’m not there.
He walks away, and keeps on walking and walking until he’s left Sandybanks behind, and the sky gradually darkens until it’s properly dark. Then finally he heads back, the sea glittering beneath a full, bright moon.
Frank lets himself back into the truck where he crawls into the rank old sleeping bag, and rests his head on Badger’s cushion and tries to sleep. However, he can’t sleep tonight. Not when he doesn’t know how long he can stay there, or whether he’s ruined his marriage forever.
Somehow, he’s got himself into this awful situation, and he has no idea what to do next.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Living at Kilmory Cottage: Carly, Eddie, Kenny
Carly
On day ten, I crack.
It’s Dad’s egg that does it. Dad’s egg that’s so overboiled the yolk resembles yellow wall cavity filling, encased in a white rubber jacket. ‘Carly!’ He calls me over to examine it.
‘I’ll do you another one,’ I say.
