‘And you remember Abby?’ Linda prompts him with a reassuring nod.
‘Sit down.’ Linda pulls out a chair next to Callum’s father, and I sit without hesitation.
‘You’ll have tea.’ It isn’t a question.
Linda takes down another two cups from the cupboard and pours tea for everyone from a steaming hot pot on the Aga. The traditional kitchen has high ceilings and sash windows, but it’s dark, even gloomy in places.
Callum’s father enquires about the rugby. I slip in and out of the conversation, noticing that Callum can’t relax. There’s a tension in this house that I can’t fathom. Like we are all waiting for something, but I’m not sure what.
An hour later, following three refills of Barry’s tea, Callum asks if I mind if he does an hour’s work in the garden.
‘Belt away. I’m absolutely fine,’ I assure him.
‘You can come out with me if you like? Or you could walk the East Pier if you prefer?’ he suggests.
‘She’s perfectly fine where she is. And you’re right, that garden does need a bit of TLC.’ Linda refills the teapot again and touches my arm affectionately. It occurs to me that if he didn’t let a woman into his apartment, he probably never brought one home before, either. They’re as curious about me as I am about them.
‘I won’t be long.’ He shoots Linda a warning look and opens the back door in search of gardening tools. The door bangs hard behind him as the wind from an open window flies through the house, rattling the panes of glass.
‘Do you bake?’ Linda asks me.
‘I try.’ I love baking, but usually avoid it, I have a tendency to eat the entire batch of whatever I make.
Linda pulls out flour, raisins and butter and begins kneading dough for scones. I stand to help her. She offers me a sideways smile and some ingredients, and we work side by side. Callum’s father watches with a wistful smile. He’s present but displays minimal signs of presence.
‘She always wanted a daughter,’ Jimmy says. I’m unsure if he’s referring to Linda or to his late wife. He doesn’t elaborate.
Linda looks at least fifteen years younger than her brother. I ask about other siblings and listen quietly as the two of them regale stories of their brothers and sisters and a childhood home a stone’s throw away from here. Callum’s father bounces off his younger sister, who has what can only be described as a very Irish sense of humour. The insults roll from her tongue in a hilarious yet endearing manner. I’m left under no illusion that these two are not only siblings, but great friends as well. She has a super knack of bringing him back to the present with humour.
‘Our Jimmy here used to be a swimwear model, Abby. Bet Callum didn’t tell you that, did he?’ Linda nudges me and winks at Jimmy who rolls his eyes to the ceiling.
‘It was entirely by accident.’ He recalls the memory instantaneously. ‘I was on the beach and they happened to be taking photos of some rare passing naval ship. It was just by chance they caught me in the image in my Speedos. There was no such thing as swimming shorts in those days. Of course, it was all over the front page ofThe Irish Times. No such thing as Photoshop then.’ He chuckles deeply, crinkled eyelids creasing at the memory.
Callum returns from the garden an hour later, as promised, hot and sweaty. His nostrils flare in appreciation of Linda’s baking, and he helps himself to a pint glass and some water.
‘Hope you’re all having a nice relaxing time in here while I’m breaking my balls out there’ he says with a smile.
He’s testing me, whether he knows it or not is another thing. He deliberately left me with his family to see how I’d manage. He should know me better than that. I’d talk to the wall. I’m used to mostly talking to thin air – though the entire country may actually be listening, they don’t ever immediately reply.
An hour runs into two as we sit once again around the table, buttering the scones and drinking fresh cups of tea. I’m worlds away from my usual Saturday park run, but I wouldn’t be anywhere else. Callum eventually relaxes, apparently reassured that his family are no more embarrassing than anyone else’s. Wait until I throw him into the deep in with my mad lot, then he’ll know about embarrassing.
‘We better head back.’ Callum pushes his chair back to leave, clutching his empty mug in his right hand.
‘Don’t go yet,’ Jimmy urges.
Callum winces in apprehension of what his father is about to say, but he doesn’t try and stop him.
‘Your mammy will be home any second and she’d love to see you,’ Jimmy announces with such certainty that it breaks my own heart, never mind Callum’s. Another piece of the puzzle slips into place.
Callum crosses the room to reach him. ‘Mam’s gone, Dad, remember?’ Callum speaks slowly and softly. Confusion flickers, deepening the creases of Jimmy’s face for a few short seconds before he begins to sob, huge heartfelt tears.
I look away, an intruder violating such a private moment. Linda puts an arm around both of them, and I wash and dry our plates, the silence broken only by the muffled sobs of Callum’s father as he’s reminded of the cruel world we live in.
As they bid us goodbye from the doorway, Callum promises to visit one evening during the week. Linda sends us home with a bag full of scones and urges me to call again anytime.
Callum negotiates the Jeep out on to the road, his knuckles white as he clenches the leather steering wheel and sighs heavily.
‘I’m sorry about that.’ He rests a hand lightly on my knee as we stop at a red light.
