She’s gone up to bed early. He’s meant to think she’s tired, but she’ll be knitting the scarf he isn’t supposed to know about. He missed University Challenge when he was doing a late on Tuesday and he couldn’t watch it last night because it was the baking programme, so he’s found it on the iPlayer instead. There’s something razor-ish and wit-sharpening about the violin music at the beginning of the programme. Ready, steady – think, it seems to say.
In this episode the University of Sussex is up against St Peter’s College, Oxford. They’re all dead posh and there isn’t a woman on either team. It wouldn’t have even registered before he had Clover; having a daughter does that to you – makes you wonder where all the women are.
He always aims to get at least one question right. If he gets two or, God forbid, three, he allows himself a beer before bed. The first question is about The Beatles. It’s a gift. ‘What short adjective links a tea, lighter in body than green tea, and The Beatles’ ninth official album?’ Any old fool’d get it. Now he can relax. Questions about poetry, Shakespeare, Charles Dickens and politics follow. He doesn’t know any of it. But a cloud formation question saves him and he gets up from the sofa to fetch a beer from the fridge.
He was supposed to go to university. Birmingham – far enough to leave home and near enough to come back regularly. He still has the letter offering him a place. The prospectus will be somewhere, too. And the letter agreeing to a one-year deferral. In the dining room, perhaps. Or here in the kitchen, in one of the drawers or a cupboard. He used to get them out and look at them sometimes when Clover was small – idiot. He read that bloody prospectus a thousand times when he was still at college. He used a luminous highlighter to score through the words he was looking forward to appropriating: meteorology, deforestation, globalisation, geomorphological processes – pretty soon the page headed ‘Geography BSc Hons’ was a resplendent yellow.
‘Darren’s not going anywhere, are you?’ Dad said that summer, after the exams, when Mum was first diagnosed. ‘He wouldn’t dream of it, would you, son?’
It was a warning, disguised as reassurance. Don’t you dare leave me to cope with this by myself – that’s what Dad was really saying. It was hard to take in: university had always been part of the map of his life. And Mum didn’t offer any encouragement. There was no ‘you go on, love, I’ll be fine’, no sense that it would be okay for him to continue with his life as planned. So he didn’t.
He slumps back on the sofa and slurps the beer. If he’d gone away he’d be someone else entirely now. If wishes were horses.
When Mum was first ill he got a part-time job working in the newsagent where he’d been a paper boy. Something to do while he waited for her to get better, he thought. Somewhere to go when he wasn’t taking it in turns with Dad to ferry her back and forth to radiotherapy and chemotherapy and laser treatment and photodynamic therapy. Somewhere to go in between hospital visits. Somewhere to go in between hospice visits. Something to do while he waited for her to die, he later realised.
On the mornings when he wasn’t at the newsagent from daybreak, folding papers for the boys and girls who would deliver them, he looked after Mum, just as she’d looked after him. He helped her down the stairs and made her milky tea and white-bread toast. He cut the toast into triangles and slotted it into a rack, serving it with Marmite, marmalade or the last of the previous year’s home-made raspberry jam, while GMTV played on the portable telly in the kitchen.
The prospectus remained on his desk. Bedtime reading. It was easy to believe that the world it contained was as flat and two dimensional as its pages, just waiting to be animated by his arrival. Easy, until mid-December, when people who’d gone away started coming home for the holiday, and the sight of them in town or at the social club on a Friday night nudged his equilibrium.
Weekends back then began with TFI Friday, which he and Colin watched through a cloud of Lynx and hairspray. Darren arranged his curtained locks à la David Beckham. Colin’s hairline was already creeping away from his forehead, it wouldn’t be long before he’d adopt the Jason Statham, but back then he still brushed what hair he had forward and sprayed it into a brittle, Shredded Wheat-like fringe. Sometimes they’d walk to Bliss and pick one of the building’s three sticky-carpeted floors: pop, indie or dance. They’d wonder whether they were dancing or drinking in the exact spot where Tom Jones and The Beatles once stood. And when they’d had a few drinks they’d engage in a game of spot-the-Everton-player. Other times, they’d go down the social club for an evening of passive smoking, karaoke and snooker. They’d drink. Talk to girls – it’d be another couple of years before Colin came out. Provide a bit of hands-on snooker tutelage – let me help you with that, love. Follow up with a snog in the car park – cop a feel, if they were lucky. Go back to Colin’s for a few more beers and watch Eurotrash with Kelly until Colin teased her away.
‘She’s stayed up specially, just to be in the same room as you, haven’t you, Kel?’ he’d say. ‘She gets the fanny gallops whenever she thinks about you, don’t you, Kel?’
Kelly’d take so much, and then she’d rise from the armchair like a queen and disappear upstairs.
Mum died in the November, just over two years after she’d been diagnosed. It was too late for him to start university – he was going to have to reapply anyway, he’d lost his deferred place when he hadn’t taken it up the previous October. There were the new tuition fees to consider; he’d done a bit of reading, it seemed he’d be all right, but maintenance grants were in the process of being scrapped and replaced by loans. Dad watched the news, muttering, ‘Neither a borrower not a lender be.’ Christmas happened. Darren wondered how to stay with Dad and how to leave.
They settled into a routine. Between them they mastered an adequate, if somewhat boring, menu: beans on toast, cheese on toast, omelettes, ham and salad, frozen fish with oven chips, and, for an occasional treat, Fray Bentos pies with mushy peas. It would be better in the summer, when the vegetables came in. After they’d eaten, someone did the washing-up, and the other someone dried the dishes and put them away, and then there was the rest of each evening to get through. They put the telly on, but Coronation Street wasn’t the same without Mum’s exclamations and commentary. They still had dial-up back then, so Dad would boot up the second-hand Intel Pentium PC he’d bought and allow himself thirty minutes of clock browsing on eBay. He set an alarm and repeatedly glanced from it to the clocks on the screen, racing against time. Before he logged off he’d reread the ‘Know Your Prostate’ section of the ‘Chronic Prostatitis’ web page. ‘There’s no link between prostatitis and prostate cancer,’ he’d say, as if voicing the facts was its own kind of preventative medicine. Afterwards he’d flip open an encyclopaedia. And sigh. Flick through a couple of pages. And sigh again. It was difficult to figure out how to be a good son without Mum acting as mediator: ‘What your dad means is . . .’ And perhaps Dad was experiencing a similar lack: ‘Darren would really like it if you’d just . . .’ They’d always been spokes on the wheels of her conversations.
Darren turned twenty-one in the March, decided he was fed up of sorting and folding papers and selling Mars Bars, and, having seen a recruitment advert on the back of a number 43, got a proper job driving a bus. He was accompanied for two weeks, initially travelling as a passenger, memorising the route until he was allowed to drive in service, colleague at the ready, just in case. Then he was on his own. He circled the town, like a plane in a holding pattern, the knowledge that he’d soon be taking off making him view the place with a new fondness.
It wasn’t a bad job. Something to do while he waited for Dad to get better, he thought. Something to do when he wasn’t tiptoeing around the house, when he wasn’t answering the phone which Dad left ringing, when he wasn’t assuring concerned callers that they were fine because they had each other. Something to do when he wasn’t wondering how two people who had lived together for so long could have so little of each other, could come ungrafted so quickly.
While Mum was dying he felt sorry for himself and Dad: sorry that she was going away and leaving them. He felt sorry for her in a different way: sorry that she was ill and suffering. It didn’t occur to him that as much as they were losing her, she was losing them; that it may have felt to her like he and Dad were the ones who were going somewhere and leaving her behind. It was only after Clover was born that he considered how he would feel if he discovered he was dying. Considered – ha! It was only after Clover was born that he lay awake at night agonising over what would become of her if anything happened to him. It was only while looking at her that he finally began to get some small understanding of how his mum must have felt about him; how difficult it must have been for her to leave him, just out of his teens; how hard-fought her outward bravery had been. The mere thought of leaving Clover, even in many years’ time, once she is happily settled, is appalling because surely no one will ever love her in the unconditional, no-holds-barred way he does, and he knows how it feels to be left alone in the world without anyone who loves you like that.
Not that he was completely alone after Mum died. He had Colin, which was something. Colin, who had been working his way through a series of diplomas since he left school: bricklaying, electrical installation, painting and decorating. Colin, whose insubordinate attitude and low boredom threshold repeatedly led to trouble. He’d had a few jobs, but he never lasted long. A week or two of any kind of repetitive work – stripping and glossing doors, sanding and varnishing floorboards, slapping emulsion on ceilings – and he was ready to explode.
‘I can’t help it,’ he said. ‘Remember how we had to sit quietly in assembly? Especially during the Lord’s Prayer? It was so boring that you’d start wondering what would happen if you shouted. No? Really? You never sat there wondering what would happen if you yelled “fart” or “bugger”? Thing is, once you’ve had the thought and you’re awake to the possibility of doing it, it’s a battle between your brain and your mouth. I know, it’s your brain that tells your mouth what to do, so it’s not actually a battle, but it feels like one. And when you’ve spent two weeks mixing plaster and wiping down skirting boards, or getting the drop right on a fancy wallpaper – the stuff with big patterns – you start to get that school assembly feeling, and the thought that you’ve got to do the same thing again and again for days makes you wonder what would happen if you said, “Fetch your own water” or “I’m not wasting paper, it’s your own fault for choosing such an arse-backwards pattern.” ’
Colin had a go at being a postman and a milkman. But the daily sameness invited the possibility of all kinds of imagined coulds. He could peep inside an interesting parcel and pretend it had been damaged in transit, he could ring the bell when he delivered the milk – wakey, wakey! So he started working for himself. Doing a little bit of everything. Less chance of getting bored. He joined a gym, which also helped. It tired him out a bit. If his workouts were essentially the same, at least the music channel varied from week to week.
After Darren started work on the buses, Colin prodded him about university at regular intervals.
‘You are going, aren’t you? You can’t just stay here.’
Of course he was going. Of course he was. But the longer he stayed, the more he felt that there was an underlying vanity in the whole scheme, and the idea that he could make himself different – better, somehow – by filling his head with stuff his friends and family had never needed to know began to unsettle him.
‘You’ll go away, like you always planned, and afterwards you’ll come back here and do something different.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know, do I? Some sort of geographical thing.’
Darren found he didn’t know, either. It was becoming harder to imagine another version of himself. Harder to believe that he could go away and come back. Colin might be egging him on, but his legs felt as heavy as if someone was crouched beside him, arms clasped around his knees.
They call people by their surnames on University Challenge. If he was one of the contestants, the voiceover bloke would call out ‘Quinn!’ when he buzzed with the right answers.
Buzz – ‘Quinn!’ – ‘White!’
Buzz – ‘Quinn!’ – ‘Mother-of-pearl clouds!’
‘Hello, my name’s Darren Quinn, from Merseyside, and I’m reading Geography.’ That’s the way he’d say it if he was sitting behind one of the University Challenge desks. Reading, not studying.
The gong sounds. Paxman tells Sussex that they could have taken it. But, of course, they didn’t. ‘It’s goodbye from me,’ he says. As the violin music spikes back to life, Darren’s phone also sounds. He glances at the screen. It’s late and it’s not a number he knows.
‘I’d like to speak to Darren Quinn, please.’
‘Speaking.’
‘We’ve got you down as next of kin for Jim Brookfield?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Mr Brookfield was admitted to the Emergency Assessment Unit earlier this evening . . .’
He stands and slides his feet into his shoes without undoing the laces. As he twists to allow the shoes’ crushed heels to unfurl, the woman’s words register: she isn’t calling from the psychiatric hospital. Why not? His ears are lagging behind; he hears the words poorly and overdose. His knees slacken. He sits back down and checks the bump of his pocket for his keys. It was just the one beer. He’ll be fine to drive, won’t he?
‘. . . bring some things?’
‘I’ll come now, shall I?’
There’s a pause and then she speaks again, slowly, and it’s clear that she is repeating herself. ‘He’s not in any immediate danger, so you don’t need to come now. If there’s any change during the night, we’ll call you. If you could bring a few things in the morning?’
‘All right.’
After he hangs up, it’s the usual: he didn’t ask the right questions, didn’t find out exactly what has happened. He thinks about calling back, about making a list before he dials, so he doesn’t forget anything:
And the question that will bother him all night:
He’ll wait, though. He doesn’t like to make a fuss.
The beer is fizzing around his stomach. He should go to bed. Get some sleep. He’s going to have to tell Clover in the morning and he doesn’t have anything nice to give her. There’s a balance to strike in these situations. Bad news needs to be offset, neutralised: ‘Uncle Jim’s in hospital again – I thought you might like these roller skates’; ‘Uncle Jim’s not coming for your birthday – here’s a book about drawing animals.’ It’s always better when he can plant something in her hands, replace what he has stolen with something real.
It’s perfectly possible to have a happy childhood. He should know. If he thinks very hard he can retrieve a wisp of annoyance about the times when Mum made banana Angel Delight instead of butterscotch; he can mine some residual embarrassment at the way Dad insisted on wearing a shirt and tie whenever they went anywhere, even to the supermarket, as if without the reinforcement of the tie his neck might fall off; and he can access an ounce of indignation (tempered by a measure of relief) at not being allowed to go to a rave in Sheffield with Colin when he was sixteen. No one died; no one lost themselves. If only he could arrange equally inconsequential sadnesses for Clover.
Of course, Becky had a shitty childhood. Whenever she spoke about it she began with the words ‘This really happened’, as though she thought he wouldn’t believe her. ‘This really happened’, and then she’d say something terrible: we went to school hungry; she hit us in the stomach because it didn’t leave a mark; we were locked in our room after tea; Jim would wet himself when she shouted. He knew there was more, stuff she couldn’t think about, let alone repeat. At least the sadness in Clover’s life isn’t her mother’s kind. Still, it’s more than he ever wanted. And Jim is a regular contributor. He picks his moments: Christmas, birthdays, weekends off – all right, he doesn’t exactly pick them, but still.
Darren remembers the drive to Liverpool on Christmas Day, the roads empty because everyone else, all the normal families, were relaxing after dinner, playing charades or whatever it is they do. As he drove he remembered Christmas in his own home. The long afternoon, Mum perched on the sofa with a small glass of sherry ready to toast Her Majesty at the end of her speech. Dad rolling his eyes, pretending irritation as a means of gaining brownie points for indulgence. And Darren, sitting on the pink and grey armchair, full of roast potatoes and Fry’s Turkish delight, surrounded by his booty. It was cosy, predictable. Nothing like the ghostly drive to Liverpool, The Best Christmas Album in the World, Ever! playing in the car. ‘Simply having a wonderful Christmas time’ – ha!
Clover had grabbed the ukulele as they left the house. When they got there Darren did ‘Jingle Bells’ in the day room. Everyone joined in, even Jim, who skipped his usual jokes about George Formby and pervy window cleaners. He had a bash at ‘Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire’ too, which he’d been practising in the evenings. Made a few mistakes. No one minded. Clover was cheerful on the way home, apparently contented to have spent the afternoon with a festival of makeshift relatives. Maybe it wasn’t so bad.
His room is so stuffy he can almost feel the air brushing against him like cotton wool. He opens the window, hoping the cooler, outside air will push its way through the fuzz and into the room. The bed creaks as he sits on it. He pulls off his shoes and unpeels his socks. Stands. Unzips his trousers and sheds his polo shirt. All the while his thoughts are penduluming between selfish git and poor sod; his stomach tilts with the sway of it.
The book he bought the other night sits on the chipboard bedside unit, still wrapped in string and brown paper. He unfastens and unwraps the book – it doesn’t matter if he has a bad night, it’s his long weekend off. No work tomorrow, Saturday, Sunday or Monday. No jobs with Colin, either. Just him and Clover. And Jim, too, now.
He reads the prologue. The book isn’t what Edna imagined. It can’t possibly be. She’s got the wrong end of the stick again. It’s funny, but not in ways she’d appreciate or understand. It’s also horrifying. In the opening scene a chubby girl, who turns out to be the Morticia woman on the front cover, is bullied by a gang of boys. There’s a bit about feminism, which explains some of what the woman in the shop was going on about – nothing about standing on chairs, though; not yet, anyway. And then the poor chubby girl has her first period and there’s no one for her to talk to; no one will explain what’s going on. She’s clueless and it’s awful. He shuts the book and sticks it on the floor.
It’s so bloody hot. He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. The last train squeals as it rounds the corner and comes into the station. He thinks of those final passengers, stealing back from Manchester, Bolton and Wigan. They’ll be stepping on to the lonely, unmanned platform, climbing the metal steps to the brow of the bridge and hurrying along familiar streets made strange by the dark. The tug of home – he feels it as he drives the bus back to the garage when he’s on lates; the way, at the end of a long day, it reels you in. The train cries as it snakes out of the station. It’s too hot to settle. He rolls the duvet over and over until it sits at the end of the bed like a hay bale. There. He lies down again. Slides a hand inside his boxers and closes his eyes.
‘ARE YOU UP?’
Of course he’s up. He ran for the phone in case it was the hospital, but it’s the first day of his weekend off – he should have known who’d be calling.
‘I DIDN’T GET YOU OUT OF BED, DID I?’
‘No.’ He always says no, even when the phone stabs deep into his sleep, puncturing his dreams and sending him stumbling down the stairs, half-blind, heart thudding, morning erection tenting his boxers.
‘HAVE YOU GOT ANY PLANS?’
‘Not much –’
‘You could GO ON A DATE.’
Oh God, not again.
‘I’m happy to LOOK AFTER Clover. She could STAY OVERNIGHT.’
‘I’m not going on a date.’
Clover appears at the top of the stairs, bleary-eyed, hair wild. He waves her back to bed.
‘NO MAN IS AN ICEBERG.’
‘I’m fine. Clover and me are –’
‘It’s NOT GOOD for a man to be ALONE.’
‘I’m not alone, I’ve –’
‘There’s a LID for EVERY POT.’
‘Well . . . I’m not sure I –’
‘You’ll be off to the ALLOTMENT soon?’
‘Later. I’m going to visit Jim. In hospital.’
‘OH NO!’
‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure what’s happened, I –’
‘You always get THE BLUNT OF IT.’
‘It’s all right,’ he says, feeling, as ever, obliged to stick up for Jim in the face of external criticism. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘YOUR’E A GOOD MAN – the way you CARRY ON in the FACE OF ABSURDITY. If you’d just TIDY UP YOUR GARDEN, I’d have NO COMPLAINTS.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘I DON’T BELIEVE YOU.’
‘I will. Promise.’
Jim is hollowed out. His bones are pushing into his face, wheeling his eyes and whittling his cheeks. An oxygen tube rests on his upper lip and loops behind his ears like a fancy moustache. There are scabs all over his bare arms, and his fingers are swollen and knotty. A nurse checks a machine beside the bed. Darren can’t make himself smile. An old anger is climbing around inside him. His cheeks feel stiff, the skin stretched tight over the bones, hot and stingy.
‘What happened? They said you took an –’
‘It was an accident. I wouldn’t . . .’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I wouldn’t, you know I wouldn’t.’
‘You’d better not.’
‘I said, didn’t I?’
‘I thought you might –’
‘I wouldn’t. All right?’
‘What happened?’
‘It was a mistake.’
‘How?’
‘My bloody teeth. I just – they really hurt.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Too much Nurofen. Had some Disprin, too. I thought you could. And some of them Night Pain tablets as well.’
‘You can’t do that. It’s the same stuff, in different boxes.’
‘I got confused.’
‘You mean drunk?’
‘Where’s Clover?’
‘Do you think I’d bring her before I knew?’
‘Suppose not.’
‘Well.’
‘Well.’
Ding, ding, ding. Round one over, Darren sits beside the bed in the pink vinyl-coated armchair. At least it’s a side room, which means Jim won’t regale the rest of the ward with stories about his job as an RSPCA inspector (he wasn’t) and the time he saved twelve Bengal cats from extermination (he didn’t).
‘Could you wheel me outside? I’m dying for a ciggie.’
Darren looks at the machine beside the bed. Jim is attached to it in two places. Blood appears to be flowing out of him and into the machine before streaming back into him again.
‘I don’t think you can go anywhere.’
‘Now, Jim, what have I said?’ the nurse asks, folding her arms beneath a bust that is mountainous and unyielding. ‘You can’t go out, and even if you could, you’re not allowed to smoke. Oxygen accelerates combustion. It’s a fire hazard. People have died because they fancied a quick smoke while they were on oxygen. You’ve got your patches.’ She turns to Darren. ‘We’re also giving him something called chlordiazepoxide hydrochloride, which should help with the alcohol withdrawal. That’s his lot, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s not enough,’ he whines.
‘Well, it’ll have to be,’ she says, and Darren feels a stab of pleasure at his discomfort.
‘How did you get here?’
‘One of the Polish lads saw me, on the floor. He called an ambulance.’
‘So your door was open? God, how many times have I told you about that?’
‘He wouldn’t have seen me if it had been closed.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘I might have died if the door had been shut.’
‘That’d have been nice for Clover, wouldn’t it? “Jim Brookfield Found Dead in Bedsit.” ’
‘Studio flat.’
‘Whatever.’
‘He’d been sick, hadn’t you, Jim?’ the nurse prompts. ‘He’d been bleeding from his tummy and he was very poorly when he came in. I don’t think he realises how lucky he is. We’re giving his kidneys a rest. He’s going to have to make some lifestyle changes, aren’t you, Jim?’
Jim is so far past pretending, he doesn’t even nod.
‘I brought you some stuff.’ Darren puts a carrier bag on the bed. ‘Just from Primarni and the pound shop.’
He went straight to town, as soon as the shops opened. Didn’t bother going to the bedsit to look for Jim’s things. At the very least they’d have needed washing, if not binning. He dashed around for the usual: pyjamas, pants, socks, shampoo, deodorant, a toothbrush, toothpaste and a couple of jigsaws. They only do 100-piece puzzles at the pound shop; he chose a Labrador puppy with a red ribbon around its neck and a Dora the Explorer. Wait till Jim sees them, he’ll do his nut.
‘Ta.’ He doesn’t even look in the bag.
‘You’re lucky to have such a nice brother,’ the nurse says.
‘He’s not my brother.’
Jim works his way through various iterations of ‘we’re not related’ and ‘he’s got nothing to do with me’ every time he’s in hospital. He thinks he’s making some big point by saying it.
‘We’ll get him seen by the hospital dentist while he’s in. His mouth’s a mess. And he really shouldn’t be drinking while he’s taking methotrexate. That’s the name of his psoriasis medication.’
‘I know.’
‘We’ve done some liver function tests. Livers are surprisingly resilient. Yours needs some time off, doesn’t it, Jim? We’ve had a chat about this, haven’t we?’
Jim pulls faces as she talks. Like a teenager.
‘You’re going to listen to the nurse, aren’t you?’
They stare at each other and all the years and all the things between them crowd the room. Darren breaks off first. ‘You are listening, aren’t you?’ But Jim looks right through him and Darren knows that none of it matters. Jim won’t stop drinking. He won’t promise to take his medication. He won’t stop smoking. And he won’t eat properly – he can’t even remember to clean his teeth. He wouldn’t do it for Becky. He won’t do it for anyone.
‘What about his mental health?’
‘Someone’s coming to talk to him this afternoon.’
‘I am in the room, you know.’
‘Sorry. Do you want to watch the telly while you’re in?’
‘Yeah. Ta.’
Darren manoeuvres the bedside screen with one hand and fishes in his jeans pocket for his debit card with the other.
‘It must have been hard for you . . .’ Jim begins.
Darren stands there, debit card pinched between his fingers. It has been hard. He’s had years of it. Jim’s words are a concession of sorts. An acknowledgement of all the shit that’s happened. That’s all it takes, just a smidgen of recognition settles the roving of the old anger, and he is glad to help, happy to pay for the telly, even though it costs a bloody fortune.
‘. . . really hard, knowing Becky preferred me.’
He stuffs the card back in his pocket. One of his shoes squeaks as he turns. The door to the room swings shut behind him and he strides past the nurses at the desk and down the long corridor, past the hand sanitisers and the signs for the X-ray department, past the café and the hospital shop, and through the double doors. Outside, he pays £3 to retrieve his car. He reverses out of his space carefully and drives home, windows down, radio off, hands wrapped tight around the wheel.
Kelly is hurrying down the path and back to her car as he pulls up. She has parked in his way, blocking the drive. He leaves his engine running and climbs out.
‘Clover says you’re going to Blackpool tomorrow. It’s my weekend off, too. Why don’t me and the boys come with you?’ Her hair is brown today, shiny, like a conker; and she’s done something to her eyebrows, they look like she’s drawn them on with a black felt tip. She looks nice; she always looks nice.
A day with Kelly and the boys will be full, bursting at the seams with chat and laughter. And Clover will enjoy herself, he knows she will. So he says yes, even as he wonders whether he is becoming a project; if Kelly is so kind because she feels sorry for him. He doesn’t want anyone to feel sorry for him, least of all Kelly – but that’s not something he wants to examine right now.