The incense on Quinn’s desk floated between them, a lavender scent in the air. The Lo-Fi music playing on the shop speakers at a discreet volume clashed with Gordon’s plastered stained high-vis jacket, his work slacks, and his black boots covered in dust.
‘A break from what?’
‘Harold!’ Gordon said, his hand darting out and gesturing at the castle on the hill. ‘He is on one, and has been on one, for three days now.’
Quinn dusted off his clean clothes. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes, you do,’ Gordon said. ‘He’s pissed.’
‘Shame. Daniel, do you mind if I just…?’
Daniel, stocking the shelves, nodded. ‘Go for it.’
‘Hiya, mate,’ Gordon said.
‘Yeah. Hi. Hiya, bro … ski.’ Daniel blushed at his own words.
Gordon moved aside as Quinn came from behind the table and walked to the back of the shop towards the kitchen. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘Mate, I’d love one.’
Quinn paused. ‘Tea? Or coffee?’
‘I’m a builder,’ Gordon said, as if that meant something.
Quinn, juggling a 50/50 crisis of making the right drink, left Gordon standing in the back of the shop at the altar, like he was waiting to get married on his lunch break. Here in the kitchen, where two monstera plants caught the weak winter sunlight from two small windows, he exhaled. He could stay here, listening to the kettle’s water boiling, and hope that Gordon would leave.
‘He’s ranting about last night.’ Gordon’s voice echoed from the shop. ‘Said he’s never felt so humiliated in his life.’
‘He didn’t have to come.’ Quinn added one tea bag to a Roald Dahl-inspired mug, and then coffee to his own Penguin Classics mug. ‘He could have saved himself the embarrassment.’
Emerging into the shop again, Quinn was on one hand relieved to see no customers, but annoyed to still see Gordon, even though he’d offered hospitality.
‘Lush colour, mate.’ Gordon sipped his tea. ‘Got any bickies?’
Quinn found the biscuit tin in the kitchen. ‘You want to talk.’
‘Aye, well, I want a break,’ Gordon said.
‘Confessional?’ Quinn gestured to his booth, and Gordon, after pausing for just a little too long, shrugged and got in.
‘So, what am I meant to do here?’ Gordon asked.
‘Rant away.’
Gordon sipped his tea, a loud sucking sound. ‘Ahhh. Well, you know what Harold can be like. Got a temper on him, that man has. Keeps the boys in order with his jibes and his outbursts. Only I’ve never seen him like this before. Fuming. Absolutely tamping. Says he won’t let this slide.’
Quinn tugged at his jumper, hoping to cool his rising temperature. The last thing he wanted to do was to make any family member an enemy. He knew it would cause aggravation, maybe even come between him and his mother, but would it get so bad? It seemed almost as if Harold couldn’t see any solution other than to burn bridges.
He glanced at the grate between him and Gordon, relieved that his cousin couldn’t see him biting his lip.
‘He thought that by going on the radio he could get the narrative straight,’ Gordon said. ‘Get the press back on the castle. But now he thinks the restoration is being overshadowed and tainted. He’s worried people won’t want the castle open again.’
‘Well, that’s not true,’ Quinn said. ‘People love the castle.’
‘That’s what I said,’ Gordon said through a mouthful of biscuits. ‘Only Harold won’t listen. He reckons now that they’re going to come for him.’
‘Who?’
