Patrick
BOLTON
DECEMBER 2012
Veronica’s upset, really upset. I don’t like it. But I realize, with a start, that I can’t carry on reading right now because it’s time to go to the thing at Gav’s. I’m already running late.
I’m kind of creeped out by it all, though. That guy, Harry. Could he be my grandfather? Is Harry’s blood running in my veins? As I pull on a clean shirt, I look over at my reflection in the mirror. You couldn’t say my face is broad, not really; and my skin isn’t too bad. Still, I could have got those things from my mum’s side. Do my ears stick out a lot? Hard to say. I turn my head about, trying to make it out.
That thing with the model airplanes is just the kind of thing I’d be into. It’s weird. I don’t know what I’m hoping. I’m not warming to Harry much, but it’s clear he fancies the pants off Veronica. I have to say I’m rooting for her. I hope she doesn’t rush into things. She’s way too young.
This whole thing is getting under my skin. Oh well, whether I like it or not, Granny V’s teenage life will just have to go on hold. Needs must.
Gav seems to have got the idea I’m in need of company. At least, I presume that’s why he invited me to dinner. Gav’s a star to be thinking of me when he’s got so much stuff going on in his own life; it must be a fricking nightmare dealing with grief for his mum and worry about his daughter both at the same time.
To be honest, I’d be much happier meeting him down the pub for a pint. I’m not blessed with great social skills, and I’m hopeless at dinner party chitchat. Still, there’ll be kids there. I find kids much easier to talk to than adults. There’s no pressure to be cool or anything with kids. They just accept you as you are.
I cycle to the address. Gav’s place is third along in a terrace of mushroom-colored ex–council houses. A stack of bicycles against the outhouse is a giveaway I’ve come to the right one. They’ve made an effort with the front patch of garden. There’s a neatly trimmed hedge, some flower beds and that.
When I ring the bell, the door is opened by a little girl in a red dress with ladybird patterns all over it and shiny red sandals to match. She has huge eyes but no hair. A faded blue cloth is wrapped tightly around the top of her head.
“Hi there!” I say.
“Mum!” she shrieks. “He’s here!”
Without waiting for any answer, she takes my hand and leads me through the hall and into the sitting room. “You are Patrick,” she tells me, “and I am Daisy. This is the sitting room. This is my dad, but you know him already from bicycles.” Gav leaps up from his chair and squeezes my hand but can’t say anything yet because Daisy is in full flow. “This is my brother, Noah, but you don’t need to take any notice of him”—here a small boy with his head in a comic lifts a hand and waves it in my direction but doesn’t look up—“and this is my doll, Trudy, who is my daughter—not my real daughter, actually, but she is like a daughter to me and I look after her.” (Trudy the doll, a bigheaded, bulbous-eyed thing, is clearly more important than Noah the brother.) “The only other people left for you to meet now are Mummy and Bryony. They’re in the kitchen, making the pudding look nice and drinking wine. Mummy and Bryony, that is: both of them.” She’s very emphatic.
“Oh, right. I’ve met your mum before,” I tell her, recalling the waiflike woman who sometimes appears in the shop when Gav’s forgotten something. “But Bryony?”
“Bryony’s a friend,” Gav explains with a bit of a sly grin. “We invited her, too, because she’s been at a bit of a loose end lately.”
“Bryony’s very, very pretty,” Daisy tells me. Her eyes wander across my face, taking in my features. “And you are quite handsome,” she eventually decides.
I feel a bit daunted at the prospect of this Bryony. More than a bit, to be honest. I get tongue-tied in the presence of attractive women. I revert to teenager-dom in a way that isn’t good.
Without warning, Daisy makes us all jump by shrieking. “Mum! Patrick is here and you’re keeping him waiting. You shouldn’t do that. Are you and Bryony coming anytime soon?”
There’s laughter from the direction of the kitchen. “Yes, dear! On our way.”
Gav’s wife steps into the room and gives me a peck on the cheek. She’s as waiflike as ever, and her face seems to be collecting lines too quickly for her age. “I’m so glad you could come, Patrick. I’m afraid dinner’s going to be a bit basic. I had to make something the children will eat.”
“No probs,” I say, pushing my gift of cheap wine into her hands.
She moves aside, and I see a dazzling smile attached to a little oval face. As introductions are made I register that, yes, Bryony is very pretty. Her eyes are luscious and lashy; her hair is cut in a sleek bob. It shines in lots of different tints of copper and gold whenever she moves her head. She’s made an effort with her appearance. She got herself sparkled up with a sparkling necklace and little sparkling earrings. She’s wearing a floaty (almost see-through) top and tight black skirt that doesn’t reach her knees. Nice legs.
Over toad-in-the-hole and peas, I learn that Bryony is a divorcée and she’s working at the local museum. Her hobbies are tennis, ancient history and felting. She promises to make a felt giraffe for Daisy. She’s a hell of a lot nicer than me, more intelligent than me and more interesting than me.
In spite of all this, I somehow can’t get myself to be that interested in her. I keep thinking about Granny’s diaries. Is Harry my grandfather? Did he love Granny V? What exactly happened between them? And why was she so upset on twenty-ninth of October 1940? I just want to get back home so I can read more.
After the meal, Daisy and Noah are anxious to show the visitors their three guinea pigs. Bryony and I are led out to the back garden. Daisy scoops the guinea pigs from the hutch, and they are passed round, one by one.
“Cute, aren’t they?” says Bryony, cradling one of the furry guys. “Do you like animals, Patrick?”
“Yup. Err, yes, I s’pose.”
Daisy beams at us. She seems to be expecting me to say something more, but my head is empty of ideas. A total vacuum. She waits a little longer then takes the guinea pig back from Bryony crossly and declares: “So you two’ll have to get a guinea pig when you get married.”
I’m now wishing the earth would swallow me up, but Bryony doesn’t seem the least bit rattled. “Daisy, you’re slightly jumping to conclusions!” she declares with a ringing laugh.
Bryony only lives down the road, and Gav has made me promise to walk her home.
I don’t mind much. She’s pleasant company. When we’ve said goodbye to our hosts, I trot down the road with her, wheeling my bike on the other side. We talk about Daisy. Bryony says what a shame it is she’s so ill and what a brave little girl and how amazing she is and for that matter the whole family is amazing. I agree. It doesn’t take long for that conversation to run its course. Next up we talk about the safety of different neighborhoods and how she’s normally quite happy to walk the streets on her own at night, but as Gav was so insistent . . . I say it’s a pleasure (A pleasure! I’m using my shop-speak now) and it’s not far out of my way in any case. There’s an awkward pause and our footsteps sound loud.
“I gather you recently split with your girlfriend?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Lynette, her name was. She left me a few months ago without warning.”
Bryony makes a sympathetic sort of noise. “So hard when that happens. It took me two years to get over my husband leaving. Almost as long as the marriage!”
“You don’t say!”
I wonder vaguely what her husband was like. An idiot, I bet. She deserves better.
She seems deep in thought as she walks by my side. I’m wondering if she’s going to invite me in for a coffee and what I’ll do if she does. Coffee isn’t tempting, but what comes after might be. Is it going to be a longer night than I’d expected? How far do I go? How far does she want me to go? How far do I want me to go? And am I wearing clean underpants? All sorts of performance-related anxieties are beginning to circle like wolves.
We’ve almost reached her door. The renewed silence is becoming unbearable. I grasp around in my headspace for something to fill it.
“I’ve been reading my grandmother’s diaries,” I say at last.
“Oh, how intriguing,” she answers, politely.
“She was, like, beautiful when she was younger. Really beautiful.” I wonder whether to add “just like you” but decide against it. Too corny.
I stop and she stops, too. I face her in the street, under a lamppost. “Bryony, I’m going to ask you something, and I’d like you to be honest with me.”
“Of course I will, Patrick.” She looks like she’s in a state of preparation, her features deliberately calm but all ready to arrange themselves into an appropriate reaction.
We view each other for a moment in the lamplight. Then I just come out with it. “Bryony, do you think my ears stick out?”
She looks startled. This isn’t what she was expecting. “Why, no, not especially. They’re quite nice ears.”
There’s some hope, then.
We carry on walking.
“Well,” she sighs as we come to the steps of number sixteen. “We’re here. And . . . I still like your ears.”
“OK, great.”
She fumbles in her bag for the key. When she’s found it she plays with it, looking up at me. Am I supposed to kiss her? Is it a good idea? I can’t quite make it out. She does look alluring. Her eyes are all twinkly like her jewelry, and the edge of her hair gleams red gold in the dusk. Her lips are full and slightly open. I could just go for it. I’m thinking right now that she looks like she’d be up for it. But am I up for it? Man, I must be crazy! What’s wrong with me? It’s bloody shameful, not to grab a chance like this.
I can’t exactly say what excuse I’ve got. It could be that I’m not over Lynette yet. But I don’t think it is. Jeez, I’m not right in the head, mate. Here’s this gorgeous, sexy woman, available, just waiting for me to make a move. But no, nothing’s going to happen between me and Bryony. Because do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to head straight back home and get on with reading my granny’s diaries.