overcooked
roast potato of the frozen rather than the peeled variety. If only he
could persuade Mrs Turner to live in permanently and become a
well-paid domestic slave. Hell, she’d been widowed for eight
years and lived on a tough estate, visited sporadically by her
foul-mouthed daughter-in-law. She might go for live-in servitude,
sleeping in the converted loft.
Shane gave up the ghost and
dropped a potato from his mouth onto his plate, still steaming and
whole.
‘Shane!’
‘It’s frigging
thermonuclear!’
‘I hope you’ll be on
your best behaviour for lunch with Angela.’
‘Aw, Dad, do I really have
to? Isn’t one ugly McGinlay enough at a time?’
‘But she’s looking
forward to it!’ lied Conor. Angela had sounded terrified at the
prospect over the phone.
‘She’s a widow,
right?’
Conor put down his cutlery. ‘ She’s not a
little old woman in black, if that’s what you’re
visualising. She’s attractive and vibrant.’
Shane sighed. That told him
nothing. ‘ What
colour’s her hair?’
‘Brown.’
‘And her eyes?’
‘Sort of bluey.’
‘What did her old man die
of?’
‘A heart attack. And don’t
go on about it when you meet her.’
Shane, who was generally too
sensible and sensitive to wilfully do such a thing, wound up Conor a
bit more by observing, ‘ You’ve
got to be careful, though, Dad. She could be a black widow after all,
marrying men for their money, then bumping them off.’
‘Lucky I’m not
arachnophobic,’ said Conor stoutly. ‘ And
her mum’s nice, too.’
Shane pulled a face a
contortionist would’ve patented. ‘ God,
so there’s an old battle-axe in the background? They’ve
probably cooked up the husband-poisoning scheme between them.’
He leant forward and pronged an unprotected fish finger off Conor’s
plate, intoning, ‘ Digitalis.’
‘Digi what?’
‘It’s a poison that’s
odourless, colourless and impossible to detect,’ revealed
Shane. ‘ When you
keel over, it looks just like a heart attack. It’s in all the
Agatha Christie books. They reckon that’s how the mafia bumped
off John Paul the First.’
Conor decided to stack their two
plates in an authoritative manner. ‘ If
you don’t fancy lunch here, we could go to the Fire Station.’
‘Great ‒ if I was
still ten!’
Conor glared. ‘ I
thought you loved the place.’
‘Move with the times, Dad.’
The Fire Station was a local restaurant with an obvious theme,
complete with fireman’s pole for bored kiddies to slide down.
His only hope in getting Conor to
notice the ageing process, Shane reckoned, was the magical advent of
his voice breaking. Now and then it hit a bass note when he least
expected it, but then rose almost immediately to an embarrassing
squeak, like a bad singer grappling with scales.
‘Tell you what, Dad.’
A wicked gleam leapt into Shane’s eye. ‘ You
reckon she’s a bit of a veggie, so why don’t I do my
tex-mex vegetarian chilli, like I did for the cookery exam? You
rustle up your customary burnt offerings for me and you.’
‘I don’t know.’
Conor, missing the wicked gleam, was tempted.
Grilled breakfasts and leathery
meat-and-two-veg were about his culinary limit. He wanted to give
Angela something better. And the cookery teacher had raved about
Shane’s tex-mex on open night. At the time, Conor had
considered it unmanly to enthuse back.
‘All right,’ he
finally nodded. ‘ If
you give me a list of ingredients, I’ll lay in provisions.’
He paused. ‘ Thanks,
son.’
‘Don’t
mention it,’ mumbled Shane. He was getting used to these
twinges of guilt.
Angela straightened up from Robert’s grave,
eyeing the white tulips she’d arranged, ad-hoc fashion, in the
pepperpot flower-holder thingy. On a bench nearby, Rachel sat with
blonde head bent, snipping stalks off a hardy species of geranium for
her grandparents’ grave, five rows behind Robert. Sadie,
meanwhile, was puffing noisily in the rarefied cemetery
roast potato of the frozen rather than the peeled variety. If only he
could persuade Mrs Turner to live in permanently and become a
well-paid domestic slave. Hell, she’d been widowed for eight
years and lived on a tough estate, visited sporadically by her
foul-mouthed daughter-in-law. She might go for live-in servitude,
sleeping in the converted loft.
Shane gave up the ghost and
dropped a potato from his mouth onto his plate, still steaming and
whole.
‘Shane!’
‘It’s frigging
thermonuclear!’
‘I hope you’ll be on
your best behaviour for lunch with Angela.’
‘Aw, Dad, do I really have
to? Isn’t one ugly McGinlay enough at a time?’
‘But she’s looking
forward to it!’ lied Conor. Angela had sounded terrified at the
prospect over the phone.
‘She’s a widow,
right?’
Conor put down his cutlery. ‘ She’s not a
little old woman in black, if that’s what you’re
visualising. She’s attractive and vibrant.’
Shane sighed. That told him
nothing. ‘ What
colour’s her hair?’
‘Brown.’
‘And her eyes?’
‘Sort of bluey.’
‘What did her old man die
of?’
‘A heart attack. And don’t
go on about it when you meet her.’
Shane, who was generally too
sensible and sensitive to wilfully do such a thing, wound up Conor a
bit more by observing, ‘ You’ve
got to be careful, though, Dad. She could be a black widow after all,
marrying men for their money, then bumping them off.’
‘Lucky I’m not
arachnophobic,’ said Conor stoutly. ‘ And
her mum’s nice, too.’
Shane pulled a face a
contortionist would’ve patented. ‘ God,
so there’s an old battle-axe in the background? They’ve
probably cooked up the husband-poisoning scheme between them.’
He leant forward and pronged an unprotected fish finger off Conor’s
plate, intoning, ‘ Digitalis.’
‘Digi what?’
‘It’s a poison that’s
odourless, colourless and impossible to detect,’ revealed
Shane. ‘ When you
keel over, it looks just like a heart attack. It’s in all the
Agatha Christie books. They reckon that’s how the mafia bumped
off John Paul the First.’
Conor decided to stack their two
plates in an authoritative manner. ‘ If
you don’t fancy lunch here, we could go to the Fire Station.’
‘Great ‒ if I was
still ten!’
Conor glared. ‘ I
thought you loved the place.’
‘Move with the times, Dad.’
The Fire Station was a local restaurant with an obvious theme,
complete with fireman’s pole for bored kiddies to slide down.
His only hope in getting Conor to
notice the ageing process, Shane reckoned, was the magical advent of
his voice breaking. Now and then it hit a bass note when he least
expected it, but then rose almost immediately to an embarrassing
squeak, like a bad singer grappling with scales.
‘Tell you what, Dad.’
A wicked gleam leapt into Shane’s eye. ‘ You
reckon she’s a bit of a veggie, so why don’t I do my
tex-mex vegetarian chilli, like I did for the cookery exam? You
rustle up your customary burnt offerings for me and you.’
‘I don’t know.’
Conor, missing the wicked gleam, was tempted.
Grilled breakfasts and leathery
meat-and-two-veg were about his culinary limit. He wanted to give
Angela something better. And the cookery teacher had raved about
Shane’s tex-mex on open night. At the time, Conor had
considered it unmanly to enthuse back.
‘All right,’ he
finally nodded. ‘ If
you give me a list of ingredients, I’ll lay in provisions.’
He paused. ‘ Thanks,
son.’
‘Don’t
mention it,’ mumbled Shane. He was getting used to these
twinges of guilt.
Angela straightened up from Robert’s grave,
eyeing the white tulips she’d arranged, ad-hoc fashion, in the
pepperpot flower-holder thingy. On a bench nearby, Rachel sat with
blonde head bent, snipping stalks off a hardy species of geranium for
her grandparents’ grave, five rows behind Robert. Sadie,
meanwhile, was puffing noisily in the rarefied cemetery
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