Lighthouse by Alison Moore Page B

Gloria. ‘He wouldn’t have missed this for the world.’
    Kenny came to the table and sat down with his full English breakfast. ‘I don’t get this at home,’ he said, picking up his knife and fork.
    ‘You would at my house,’ said Gloria, but Kenny ignored her, cutting into his sausage and egg.
    Futh began to say to Angela, ‘This is Kenny,’ but he was interrupted.
    ‘They’ve already met,’ said Gloria. ‘They met last night.’
    Futh said, ‘They met before last night,’ and Angela looked surprised. ‘You met at the university open day,’ he added.
    Kenny, forking a piece of black pudding, wiping it in the spreading yolk of his egg, said, ‘Do you remember that, Angela?’
    She nodded, but gingerly, as if it hurt.
    Futh said to Angela, ‘I’ve known Kenny since infant school.’
    ‘We were neighbours,’ said Kenny. ‘He pissed himself in my bed.’
    Futh broke open his croissant and looked with annoyance at the way it fell apart, at the brittle, greasy flakes covering his fingers and his plate.
    Angela seemed dazed. She pushed her black coffee away without drinking it, putting her forehead in the palm of her hand.
    Futh looked up and said, ‘You should have come to bed when I did.’
    Angela, without taking her head out of her hand, said, ‘Yes.’
    When everyone had finished, Kenny took out his cigarettes and offered them around the table. When Angela declined, Futh, thinking that smoking was something she had learnt to do in secret, said, ‘Have one.’ He was more than happy for her to have the occasional cigarette. It would be months before he came to dislike the smell of it on her.
    Looking confused, she said, ‘I don’t smoke.’
    Kenny lit up and Futh excused himself, wanting to call the taxi company to make sure that the taxi was not going to be late.
    When the taxi came, late after all, it was raining again. Futh held his coat over Angela’s head as they hurried from the pub to the waiting taxi. They got in the back and Futh opened his window to smell the rain. After a few minutes of riding along like that, Angela leaned over and closed it and Futh caught a whiff of Kenny’s cigarette smoke on her. He sat there in his damp coat looking out at all the rain and it was, he thought, a bit like the night he and Angela met at the motorway service station.
    The honeymoon was dreadful – they had delayed flights and lost luggage, twin beds and upset stomachs, bad weather and arguments about Angela having to do all the driving, and then the hire car broke down.
    ‘It was bad,’ Angela told people afterwards. ‘I’m not sure you could have a worse holiday.’
     
    With the exception of their honeymoon, for which Futh was responsible, Angela took care of all their holidays. Even at Christmas, it was Angela who arranged for them to visit her mother, her father, his father, and Futh just went with her. Last Christmas, though, for the first time, they made separate arrangements and Futh went alone to his father’s flat, which was really Gloria’s flat, chosen for its proximity to Kenny and his family.
    Futh drove over on Christmas morning. He had only been driving for a few months, had only ever driven to and from work, and never in the snow, which had fallen unexpectedly overnight. Angela had been picked up by her brother after breakfast and taken over to her father’s house. Futh, leaving soon afterwards, found that his car refused to start in the cold weather, so he took Angela’s. Searching for a scraper with which to clear the windscreen, looking in the glove compartment, he found a small towel. He took it out and found it all crusted up. He sniffed it and put it back, clearing the windscreen with a credit card.
    He could not see how to change the heater settings and a fierce jet of initially ice-cold and then increasingly hot air blew directly onto his toes as he drove up the empty motorway.
    Gloria let him in with a smile. ‘Come in out of the cold,’ she said, taking the hat