5

Kevin took a big slug of coffee, as if it was his first drink of the day. He put the drink down on the work surface and tapped the brown bag containing the croissants. ‘Remember to eat,’ he said and walked out of the kitchen.

Paula followed him, thinking: What the hell? That was it? Why bother visiting?

Farrell reached the door, pulled it open and turned to her before stepping outside. ‘Put any thoughts of Tommy having an affair out of your head, Paula. He didn’t have it in him.’ Then, obviously trying to look as if the question had just popped into his head, ‘Had any visitors this morning?’

‘Visitors?’ Paula repeated and gave a small laugh. ‘Nobody really knows what to say to a widow.’

He turned to her and opened his mouth as if to say something else. Then his head slumped as if he’d lost whatever battle was going on his mind. ‘I’ll give you a couple of days,’ he said, turned and left.

She shut the door behind him and leaned against the cool of the wood.

A couple of days for what? Why had Kevin even bothered to show up here? She reviewed his behaviour from the moment she’d opened the door to him. It was as if he’d come to ask her something and then backed off before he did.

Her head throbbed. She turned, leaned forwards, placing her palms over her cheeks, and rested her forehead on the wood. She’d heard Kevin assert that Thomas wouldn’t have had an affair with a sense of relief. But then, there was that note. What would drive a woman to do something like that? Who would hijack a funeral, for God’s sake?

But why was she so quick to wonder about Thomas’s fidelity? Yes, they’d drifted apart since Christopher died, but why would her mind instantly go there? She searched her memory for indications that Thomas might have been unfaithful over the years and came up with nothing. There were lots of time away with work, but no lipstick on his collar, no lingering perfumes on his return. She crossed her arms as if warding off any uncomfortable facts that might back up her new suspicions.

The door vibrated against her head as someone on the other side knocked.

Who could it be now? Had Kevin come back already? Her pulse was a throb at the side of her throat and she registered the worry that was now thrumming through her body.

She reached for the handle and pulled the door open, aware as she did so that her robe was gaping again.

‘Hi Paula,’ it was Father Joe. ‘Have I…’ He had the good taste not to look as Paula hastily fixed herself. ‘Have I called at a bad time?’

She closed her eyes. Shook her head.

‘Go away,’ she said.

‘But you said to come over,’ Joe said. Was that a slight slur in his voice? Paula wondered. ‘And I bring gifts.’ He held up a bottle that was already half empty. ‘Or, should I say, gift. But you’ve tonic in the house, right?’

‘You’re drunk,’ Paula said, and realised as soon as the words were out of her mouth that they were redundant. It was as obvious as the dog collar around his neck.

‘It’s not every day your big brother dies.’ Joe brought the bottle into his chest and cradled it there like it was something beyond precious. ‘So, a wee drink the day after his funeral is only to be expected. In fact, some would suggest I would be a callous human being if I didn’t get rat-arsed, down-in-the-gutter drunk.’

Paula looked at the bottle. It was a Tanquerey Number 10. She stepped back and he moved inside.

They hugged, her head on his shoulder, the skin of her forehead warmed by the heat of his neck and chin.

‘Why’s it so bloody hard, Paula?’ he asked, and she could feel the deep rumble of his voice against her cheek. His arms round her back felt so solid, she didn’t want to move.

Eventually, he took a step back. With false cheer he said, ‘This gin isn’t going to drink itself you know.’

‘Does it go with croissants?’ asked Paula, trying to give him a smile.

‘What?’

‘Must be almost noon and I still haven’t had my breakfast.’

‘And?’ As if having breakfast on a day like this made any sense.

Paula gave up any effort at an explanation, and instead said, ‘Long story.’ She walked back to the kitchen.

Once there she turned to him. ‘You know where the balcony is. Give me a chance to have a quick shower. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.’

The shower did little to wash the fatigue from her muscles or the fog from her mind, but it did make her feel a little more human to have cleaned up and put on clothes. She chose one of Thomas’s black t-shirts, which almost reached her knees, and a pair of bright-pink leggings. It was only when she was pulling the Lycra over her toes and it caught on a ragged nail that she noted the colour and wondered if it was inappropriate. She decided she didn’t much care and with an extra note of defiance used an equally pink scrunchy to hold her wet hair in a ponytail. Pushing her feet into a pair of white trainers she joined Joe on the balcony.

When they’d first moved in, they’d had the kitchen extended, and the balcony created by the flat roof was accessed from a landing halfway up the stairs. The kitchen was slick and elegant, but the balcony became her favourite part of the house. Particularly when Thomas got working with his plants.

It held a small glass table with four seats on one side, and the other half was occupied by a pair of loungers and a large patio umbrella. At every corner was a cluster of three plants – some sort of miniature palm trees and ferns, Paula presumed, suddenly aware that she’d never bothered to ask.

Joe was reclining on a lounger when she stepped outside, and he’d positioned the bottle of gin, two glasses, a bucket of ice and a large bottle of tonic on a table.

Poor Joe, thought Paula as she sized up the scene. She had to remind herself she wasn’t the only one who was grieving here. She surveyed him stretched out in front of her. He looked as if he was settling in for the rest of the day.

She really wasn’t sure she wanted anyone’s company for a whole afternoon. But she took a moment to steel herself and then unscrewed the bottle.

Joe groaned as he got to his feet, moved over to the table, then groaned again as he sat down. ‘Good Lord,’ he said. ‘I feel like I’m about ninety.’

Paula examined his face. Even with the grey pallor of grief and fatigue he was still a handsome man. ‘You don’t look it,’ she said.

He reached out for his glass and took a long sip. ‘Bless you, Paula. You will surely get through the gates of heaven.’

Paula took a seat. ‘Thanks.’ She took a sip from her glass. ‘But will Thomas?’ She regretted the flippancy of the words as soon as they left her mouth.

Joe looked up from the table. ‘What does that mean?’

She tutted. ‘Just ignore me, Joe.’ Paula sat back in her chair and crumpled into a slouch. ‘I’ve just been hearing some stuff that has made me wonder what I knew about my husband.’

‘What have you been hearing?’ Joe had assumed his priest expression now.

‘Oh, nothing.’ She thought it might be best to the change the subject. ‘You okay, Father Joe?’ she asked.

He stared into the distance. His eyes glazed with grief. His expression that of someone who found himself seriously wanting. The grey in his expression lifted as if by huge effort. ‘I was so envious of Thomas when he brought you home. I remember it like it was yesterday. I had just turned fourteen and in walked this goddess.’

‘Please…’ interrupted Paula. ‘I was a spotty sixteen, frightened to look out from behind my fringe and certain that my backside was the size of…’ she stopped. The well of energy required to finish the attempt at a joke was dry.

‘And that’s what was so attractive about you. All this beauty and you weren’t aware of it.’ He smiled as if it cost it him to do so, and his eyes grew distant as if a display of scenes were scrolling across his memory. ‘Thomas was so nervous when he brought you home.’

‘He was not.’ Paula murmured her disbelief.

‘He most definitely was. I remember him talking about you long into the night.’

Bill, Thomas and Joe shared a bedroom in their youth. Bill, being the elder, had a single bed pushed against one wall and Thomas and Joe shared a set of bunks, with Thomas on the top.

‘He was crazy about you. You know that, don’t you?’ Joe was suddenly serious. His eyes were focussed on hers and his tone sharp – certainty in his voice. ‘You really were the only one for him. Whatever…’ he waved his right hand in the air ‘…nonsense you heard, you were the love of his life, Paula.’

‘Oh, Joe.’ Paula reached out a hand and placed it on top of his. A sob escaped her throat. She cried softly for a few seconds and then wiped the tears from her face with the back of her other hand. ‘I’m so … so bloody angry,’ she said. ‘A heart attack? He was a fit man. Well, for his age and for someone who lived in this part of the world. But still, a heart attack? It just doesn’t add up.’

‘There has been heart disease in the family,’ Joe replied. ‘That’s what killed our dad, remember?’

‘And as for being the love of his life…’ Paula was only half listening to what Joe said. ‘We could have been better to each other.’

‘Show me a married couple and I’ll show you a relationship that occasionally fractures,’ said Joe. ‘Besides, sadly, we tend to save the worst of ourselves for the people who mean the most.’

‘True,’ said Paula. She took a sip from her drink. ‘You honestly never missed being in a couple?’

‘Nope. Never. What you never had you can’t miss. Besides, being important to a whole congregation of people has been a compensation.’ He mused over this statement. Looked as if he didn’t quite like the nuance. ‘That sounds a bit egotistical.’

‘I think I know what you mean. My role in life was to be part of a pair. And in the main, it worked.’ Hadn’t it? She thought of their last row. The night before he died. It was over something and nothing. She’d taken his words and twisted them. Turned a petty statement into a major crisis. What happy couple did that?

Joe looked at her as if he was about to say something. Thought more of it and took another drink.

‘What?’ asked Paula.

‘You were more than just his wife, Paula.’

She tried to make sense of the jumble in her head. A wife. Was that really what she was? Was that all? Nearly three decades and she had nothing to show for it but a marriage and a death certificate?

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said. ‘I enjoyed being his wife. I enjoyed having this lovely man by my side … and when Thomas focussed on you it was like you were the only person in the world.’ She ran out of the energy to speak and looked out across the Glasgow skyline as if she might find peace there.

‘Why did he have to die?’ she asked Joe after several minutes of silence. ‘I feel so guilty, you know? I could have been a better wife. Neither of us handled Christopher’s death well.’

Joe had assumed his professional, confessor expression again.

‘How daft is that? The one person who can understand your loss the most and it pushes you further away from him.’ Then she reined herself in. This wasn’t all about her. Joe was grieving as well.

‘Thomas took Christopher’s death hard,’ said Joe, nodding.

Paula noted that their glasses were now drained, so she offered to pour them both another.

As the ice clinked into the glasses she asked, ‘What’s your earliest memory of him?’

‘Playing football. What else? This is Glasgow. Bill didn’t want me trailing around after them, but Tommy was great. I was never a bother to him.’

‘I guess that explains why you were closer to him than to Bill,’ Paula said as she pushed Joe’s glass across the table.

‘That and the fact that Bill can be a bit of an idiot.’

She thought about Joe’s relationships with his brothers. And that between Bill and Thomas. As far back as she could remember there had been some form of competition between the two of them, and as far as she was aware, Thomas always won.

‘Thomas and Bill,’ she said. ‘When did it start – that need to best each other?’

Joe paused with his drink almost at his lips, and looked over the rim towards Paula as he answered. ‘Goodness, I’m not sure. It feels as if that pattern was set up even before I was born.’

‘Did it ever turn nasty?’

‘Once … that I’m aware of.’ And Joe’s expression betrayed the fact he was back in the past. ‘A football match. Well, a wee kickaround in the park with a bunch of pals, really. I was in goal…’ he smiled ‘… because I was rubbish. Thomas scored with an overhead kick. An absolute beauty. All the other guys were crowding round him, praising him, and the look on Bill’s face – I’ll never forget it. He was so jealous. Five minutes later they both went for the ball, even though they were on the same side. Bill went in far too fast and far too heavy. Broke Thomas’s ankle.’

Paula gasped. ‘Really?’

‘But Thomas even turned that into a win.’ Joe smiled faintly. ‘He got his stooky signed by half the players at Partick Thistle.’ Joe held his glass up in a toast to Thomas. Then he tapped his fingertips on his glass. ‘It’s as if Bill took the very worst traits of my parents and ran with them.’ His expression slumped. ‘And Tommy took the best.’

‘You’re talking to his wife, Joe. There’s no need to sanitise his memory. I know he wasn’t a saint.’

‘He was a good man, Paula. One of the very best.’

Paula looked into his eyes, considered what the note said and read a ‘but’ in there. ‘What do you know, Joe? What was Thomas up to?’

Joe looked away from her, to the sky and the huge, dark clouds sailing towards them. There was conflict in his eyes and an uncertainty.

‘Tell me Joe. What do you know?’

He looked at her and forced a smile. But she saw sadness, a weight that was all but crushing him.