‘Is it a NICE place?’
‘Gorgeous. Hills and churches and pizza.’
‘Does the pirate live there?’
‘The pirate is the pizza.’
‘That doesn't make SENSE.’
‘Art doesn't always make sense, mate. That's the best bit.’
A small girl with plaits and a sceptical expression folded her arms. ‘My mum says art is a waste of money.’
‘Your mum's entitled to her opinion. My mum said the same thing. I became an artist anyway.’
‘Did she change her mind?’
‘I was a tad older than you when she came to my first exhibition and cried in front of a painting. So. Yeah.’
‘Because it was that bad?’
‘Because she realised I wasn't lying when I said I was serious.’
The girl considered this. ‘I'm serious about horses.’
‘Then draw them. Don't let anyone tell you it's a waste.’
Freddie was laughing.
Rory was watching him.
Full-body. The laugh of a five-year-old who's found something hilarious and doesn't care who knows it.
Neil's stomach dropped. Because Rory was natural with children, crouched to their height, animated, present, and the one variable he hadn't accounted for.
The pull, yes, but this too.
‘DAD!’ Freddie broke free and sprinted. ‘Dad, look, Mr Cavanaugh showed us how to draw monsters and mine's got SIX arms and it's properly scary…’
Neil took the paper. A green blob with multiple limbs and what was either a top hat or a chimney. ‘It's terrifying,’ he said, and meant it in ways Freddie couldn't parse.
‘Mr Cavanaugh says I've got a cracking eye for colour.’
‘Does he.’
‘He says most people are scared of green but I'm not. I'm BRAVE about green.’
‘Few people do balk at strong colours.’
When Neil looked up, Rory was crossing the playground towards them. Unhurried. The afternoon light caught his hair, loose around his face. He stopped a few feet away. Reasonable distance. Hands in pockets. The smile aimed at Freddie first, then lifting to Neil, and changing fractionally as it did. Warmer at the edges. More aware.
‘He's got talent, your lad.’ Rory nodded at the drawing. ‘Proper bold choices.’
‘Green requires trust,’ Neil said. ‘Apparently.’
‘You were listening.’
‘I was collecting my son. Listening was incidental.’
