“Dad’s going to show you every change he’s made since you went away.” Seph braked a little too quickly, jerking us both forward.
“Did you pass your driving test or did you just forge the licence?”
“Given that you’re just back home and Mum is desperate to see your ugly face, I’m not going to beat you up for that. But be warned, you’re going to get a tour of the gardens.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. My dad had never gardened. Or taken an interest in the difference between a tree and a shrub. “Seriously?”
“He’s even joined some charity that does open gardens where strangers look round.”
“Suppose it could’ve been worse. He could’ve bought a Ferrari.”
“Worse for who?”
“The world in general if you ever drove something like that.”
Seph didn’t get to respond because the door was opening and Marie was standing there looking better than when I’d left.
“Where’s your stuff? Don’t tell me you’re going somewhere else? How was the flight? Are you hungry?” She eventually came up for air, not having given me any time to answer anything. Then her arms were vice-like around me. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
“I’m so glad you’re on your feet. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you were in hospital.” I knew she’d rather have been in there on her own, not causing a fuss. She hated a fuss, was never ill and if she was she hid it.
“I probably saw more of you through the internet than I would if you were here. Don’t fuss. You’re here now. Food and something to drink. Where’s your luggage, or aren’t you staying? I thought you were here for a few days.”
If I told her I was going anywhere else until Sunday night I wouldn’t get out of here alive anyway. “Luggage is in the car, if it’s survived Seph’s driving.”
“Oi. I took a day and a half off work to pick your sorry arse up.” He wagged his finger. I debated bending it backwards.
“Would you get the blue bag out? It’s got presents in it? Thank you, Joseph.” I gave him my widest smile and heard him call me a twat under his breath. He wouldn’t dare say anything Marie could hear until I’d been home for at least twenty-four hours because until then, I had complete immunity and the sun well and truly shone out of my backside.
“Callum!” My dad was carrying a spade, something I never thought I’d see. “I didn’t hear you arrive.”
“I’m surprised at that.” I looked at Seph and smirked. “Joseph’s probably put rubber tracks down your drive.” This had been one of my favourite games; bating Seph.
Our dad looked at him, then to me and shook his head. “I never knew who was worse out of the pair of you. Anyway, it’s good to see you.” He opened his arms for a hug.
I didn’t know the last time he’d hugged me. We’d had awkward shoulder pats and arm taps and that had been it. I vaguely remembered trying to scramble onto his lap when I was about six and him picking me up and putting me down.
I hugged back. He was as tall as me, but his broad frame had slimmed since his mini-stroke and he felt frailer than I remembered, although I didn’t know what I remembered him from.
“We saw all your videos. You were doing a good job out there. And having fun.” We pulled back and his gaze was appraising. “And you look well.”
That was a lot of positives to take in.
“Thanks.” I inhaled. Felt the eyes of my brother and mum on me, waiting for what I said next.
We’d been better in the last few weeks. He’d talked about how worried he’d been he was going to lose Marie and I’d realised at one point when it was late at night and we’d both probably had a few too many whiskies and Wren hadn’t been interested, that he was also scared that he was going to lose another wife.
I’d never considered his grief. I’d always been too little, at first, then when I was older, too resentful, maybe rightly so.
Now I could imagine, somehow what he’d gone through for the first time, seeing her demise. Losing her.
“Seph told me you’d taken up gardening? Does that mean you’re officially a pensioner?” I grinned, needing to lighten the atmosphere.
“I’m just digging a deep pit to bury a few of you in when you irritate me.” He smiled with fake sly eyes. “Or maybe just put Payton in when she talks too much. I’ll go and wash my hands before Marie makes us eat something.”
“Are you okay cooking?” If she wasn’t she’d be in a bad mood. When she’d first come to live with us, she hadn’t had a clue how to cook. Every night, we’d had something slightly burned or with the wrong ingredient. Even ready-made meals could be destroyed. Then, one birthday, she’d begged Dad to pay for a cooking course. He’d agreed; she’d been gone five days during which time we lived off take-outs and pub dinners; then when she came home she revolutionised our meals to the extent we thought she’d kidnapped the teacher and was keeping them hostage.
“I’m fine. Had an appointment yesterday and everything’s doing well. I can eat a bit more variety now too.”
