kneeling beside me on the sooty hearth. The flue was blocked, and a couple of plates were off their hinges.
I was pricklingly aware of him, the way he smelled when the metal fought him back and he joined grim battle with it, reaching up to the armpits in the Aga’s guts, his T-shirt sticking to him. He was starting to fill out a bit, packing his weight on in compact muscle. I could see tough cords appearing in his forearms from all the work. In a way I hardly understood why we were fixing the damn stove, not stretched out in front of it in each other’s arms. A fine spring morning, the house to ourselves, both of us young and conveniently gay, and I was powerfully attracted to him even if…
That was the problem. I had no idea how he felt about me at all. In that regard, anyway—his daily companionship was sweet to me, and he sought me out even when our labours didn’t demand we work together. I hadn’t known him long enough to call him a friend, but it was getting on that way. He was funny, smart, an attentive listener. And I caught him looking at me, but those indigo eyes hid as many truths as they revealed—the glow I took for yearning could simply be concern, the unobtrusive care he seemed to have decided to take of me. A touch to my shoulder and a gesture upstairs when midnight had passed and I was yawning over paperwork, my frequent cuts and scrapes attended. He’d never followed me beyond my bedroom door, though once or twice I knew I’d made it pretty clear he’d have met a warm reception.
That night when Harry got home the house was singing. The thrumming chant was so well known to both of us that at first he didn’t notice, just as I hadn’t really taken it in late that afternoon when the fire I’d set got big and hot enough to send the water around. Victorian radiators creaked, their connecting pipework shuddering to life. Until the system settled, the whole house would rattle and vibrate like a trawler revving up for open seas.
Harry stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the bright Aga frontage. I went to take my place beside him. There was every chance that he’d object. I hadn’t asked him. Fuel was scarce, and he’d never shared my views on hot baths and bedrooms where you couldn’t see your breath on the air. Cam was getting the pans out, ready to put on some dinner. He had a gift for fading into the background when family business arose, though by now I reckoned the old man would have included him. His affectation of forgetting Cam’s name was just that—a trick to annoy me, and I’d heard him bellowing the full-length version loud and clear enough across the yards when he wanted help with something. In unguarded moments I’d heard him call him son.
“We can’t afford to run this, Nichol.”
Thanks for fixing it. Well done. My usual reflex of hurt and irritation didn’t fire. I’d met Cam’s eyes when we’d finally managed to wrestle the plates back onto their hinge, and the satisfaction I’d seen there would do for me.
“Well, when you turned Kenzie off, you said it was him or the coal bill. I reckoned we should use the coal.” There. Highland logic to match his own. Waste not, want not, use everything and squeeze the last penny. “I know we can’t keep it going all the time. But it won’t hurt the house to heat it through from time to time, keep off the damp.”
He looked as if he was about to argue. Then his face cleared oddly of expression and he sat down, the dogs running promptly to their places round his chair. “Aye. Your mother would have said the same.”
I shifted awkwardly. He had leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, as if seeking relief from inner pain. I’d have touched any other man, asked him what was wrong. How was it that I couldn’t reach a hand to my last living relative? “Granda? Is something the matter?”
He jerked upright. “Aye! It’s half six at night, and I haven’t had a crumb to eat since breakfast. What use are
I was pricklingly aware of him, the way he smelled when the metal fought him back and he joined grim battle with it, reaching up to the armpits in the Aga’s guts, his T-shirt sticking to him. He was starting to fill out a bit, packing his weight on in compact muscle. I could see tough cords appearing in his forearms from all the work. In a way I hardly understood why we were fixing the damn stove, not stretched out in front of it in each other’s arms. A fine spring morning, the house to ourselves, both of us young and conveniently gay, and I was powerfully attracted to him even if…
That was the problem. I had no idea how he felt about me at all. In that regard, anyway—his daily companionship was sweet to me, and he sought me out even when our labours didn’t demand we work together. I hadn’t known him long enough to call him a friend, but it was getting on that way. He was funny, smart, an attentive listener. And I caught him looking at me, but those indigo eyes hid as many truths as they revealed—the glow I took for yearning could simply be concern, the unobtrusive care he seemed to have decided to take of me. A touch to my shoulder and a gesture upstairs when midnight had passed and I was yawning over paperwork, my frequent cuts and scrapes attended. He’d never followed me beyond my bedroom door, though once or twice I knew I’d made it pretty clear he’d have met a warm reception.
That night when Harry got home the house was singing. The thrumming chant was so well known to both of us that at first he didn’t notice, just as I hadn’t really taken it in late that afternoon when the fire I’d set got big and hot enough to send the water around. Victorian radiators creaked, their connecting pipework shuddering to life. Until the system settled, the whole house would rattle and vibrate like a trawler revving up for open seas.
Harry stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the bright Aga frontage. I went to take my place beside him. There was every chance that he’d object. I hadn’t asked him. Fuel was scarce, and he’d never shared my views on hot baths and bedrooms where you couldn’t see your breath on the air. Cam was getting the pans out, ready to put on some dinner. He had a gift for fading into the background when family business arose, though by now I reckoned the old man would have included him. His affectation of forgetting Cam’s name was just that—a trick to annoy me, and I’d heard him bellowing the full-length version loud and clear enough across the yards when he wanted help with something. In unguarded moments I’d heard him call him son.
“We can’t afford to run this, Nichol.”
Thanks for fixing it. Well done. My usual reflex of hurt and irritation didn’t fire. I’d met Cam’s eyes when we’d finally managed to wrestle the plates back onto their hinge, and the satisfaction I’d seen there would do for me.
“Well, when you turned Kenzie off, you said it was him or the coal bill. I reckoned we should use the coal.” There. Highland logic to match his own. Waste not, want not, use everything and squeeze the last penny. “I know we can’t keep it going all the time. But it won’t hurt the house to heat it through from time to time, keep off the damp.”
He looked as if he was about to argue. Then his face cleared oddly of expression and he sat down, the dogs running promptly to their places round his chair. “Aye. Your mother would have said the same.”
I shifted awkwardly. He had leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, as if seeking relief from inner pain. I’d have touched any other man, asked him what was wrong. How was it that I couldn’t reach a hand to my last living relative? “Granda? Is something the matter?”
He jerked upright. “Aye! It’s half six at night, and I haven’t had a crumb to eat since breakfast. What use are
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