‘Just let me finish pruning back your Mother’s roses and then we’ll have tea.’
My Mother’s roses. They run the length of the garden now, wild and colourful all summer long, but I remember a time when they were just a row of neat little bushes, tended to by her slender hands.
‘I’ll go in and put the kettle on.’
Rufus’s tail thumps the floor as I step inside, though he doesn’t move from his basket. These days, it seems you’ve got to at least open the fridge to get him up from the floor. After a quick stroke, I brush clumps of his golden hair from the sleeve of my jacket and make my way into the kitchen.
This room has undergone some remodelling, but the rest of the house is largely untouched since my mother passed. I’m sure she wouldn’t be very amused at dad’s housekeeping skills, I think, as I pull a wad of old newspaper out from the sink, and last night’s dinner preparation—vegetable peelings—fall from the paper to the brown tiled floor.
So much brown in this place.
I clean up the mess, then fill the kettle, placing it on the stove top before pulling a couple of mugs out. Dad appears at the back door.
‘Tea or coffee,’ I call over my shoulder.
‘Tea. Coffee in the afternoon. Always tea before lunch.’ He makes his way to the kitchen sink and washes his hands, drying them on a piece of kitchen towel before he turns to address me.
‘What’s on your mind, son.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘You’ve better things to do than have tea with your old man before nine o’clock in the morning. You must’ve been in the car an age getting out here.’
‘It wasn’t too bad,’ I lie, leaning back against the kitchen worktop and folding my arms. ‘I suppose I’ve come for a bit of advice.’
‘Oh.’ A ripple of pleasure seems to lighten the lines on his face. Am I so bad at asking for help? ‘Well, as you know, I don’t have much of a head for business, but I can make a soldier out of a man.’ Dad shuffles over to the breakfast bar having exchanged his rubber boots for a pair of dogeared slippers, pulling out a high stool.
‘I think it’s a bit late for me.’
‘I’ll say it is. Some men are born to take orders. Some are meant to issue them.’
‘What about me? What was I born to do?’
‘According to your mother, to give her a head of grey hair.’ He chuckles, glancing down at the buttons of his cardigan, which are fastened incorrectly. ‘Eurgh. Stupid elderly fingers.’ His head lowers as he concentrates on putting the issue right. ‘You, my boy, are a one off. They broke the mould after you.’
‘That was probably a good thing.’ Especially given my behaviour over the last twenty-four hours. Fuck, she looked so forlorn when she climbed out of the car, several streets away from the office, of course.Some things don’t change.Though she promised this will all change after the wedding this weekend.
I’d hoped she’d come to the wedding as my date, but that is apparently asking too much. Beckett’s and Olivia’s day must not be spoiled, no matter how I feel about her going alone. No matter how I feel about her running the fucking show.
‘Would it surprise you to find I’ve come for a bit of life advice?’
‘Go one.’
‘You know, it’s always hard to tell what you’re thinking.’
‘Me?’ His body retracts with surprise. ‘Where do you think you get it from?’
‘Dad, I wear my heart on my sleeve. I’m like Mum.’
‘Ha! You’d like to think so. Still rivers run deep with you. You like to give people the impression you’re as open as a book, but what goes on inside here,’ he taps his temple, ‘and here,’ and then his chest over his heart, ‘is rarely up for discussion.’
‘Well, it is today.’
‘Out with it, then.’
‘I’m going to be a father.’
‘I take it congratulations are in order?’ he enquires carefully.
