flung high, reaching for JohnPaul II as he passed, her fingers almost touching his upraised hand.
Brenda ran a duster over the frame, that ecstatic face, every Wednesday afternoon. And the Sacred Heart in the bedroom too, that gave her the creeps at first, but she’d grown immune. She’d never told the family that her Dad was an Orangeman, although Brenda did think it might appeal to them, their sense of humour. The kids were all grown now, and she’d heard them ribbing their mother about that Rome photo, and Mrs. C laughing too, saying she’d come over all heat-of-the-moment at the sight of His Holiness. But Brenda still kept her little secret. Life was just that bit easier sometimes, if you glossed over the details.
Mrs. C looked after her grandson now, on days her daughter worked, and her husband doted on the baby. He let him fall asleep in his arms instead of the cot, and he went down to the Celtic shop too, to get him a baby-sized strip, with a bib to catch the dribbles, in the same green and white, with
Papa’s Little Tim
printed across the middle.
So maybe Tim could be funny now. Brenda didn’t know. She crouched down next to Stevie anyhow; his small face still a bit teary, a bit wary. He asked her:
“You gonnae say tae Uncle Eric?”
Brenda sighed: she hadn’t yet decided. She told him:
“We’ll have tae give it back, aye? His picture.”
Stevie shook his head:
“I took it for my Maw, but.”
He’d taken it for Lindsey.
This boy was full of surprises. Brenda didn’t know what to say to that, so Stevie just turned to his mother, and buried his face in the folds of her T-shirt.
“Aw, son.” Lindsey put her arms about him. She still had hold of the drawing, and it looked like she wanted to keep it.
Brenda caught sight of her brother’s lines again, the way he’d sketched his Frances, comfortable, middle-aged, still lovely. She wondered if it was a new one. It hurt to look at, so she thought it must hurt to draw it.
She didn’t know if they should put it back. If they should risk that. Brenda didn’t think she could face Eric’s today in any case. She rubbed her forehead and looked about herself, at the wide hall and all the woodwork; all these hours they’d been here, and the floors still had to be mopped. They’d spent half the morning in someone else’s house, going into things that still cut so deep. That shouldn’t still hurt so much, surely. Only they did.
10
The boys had tiled two walls in the main bathroom by late Thursday morning and—stealing aside—Jozef was impressed. There was no way they’d manage both bathrooms by Friday, but he didn’t tell them that: they were keen and he knew this was to his advantage. They kept on well into the evening, until it was dark enough to need the lights on, and by the time they called it quits, they had only the floors left to complete.
Stevie was laying plywood in the ensuite when the developer arrived on Friday morning. The boy didn’t look up during the inspection, he just kept on with his measuring and fitting, pencil tucked behind his freckled ear, but Jozef had the uneasy feeling that he was listening to everything. To the developer’s specifications—it had to be brushed steel for all the fittings—and to how Jozef pointed out the neat silicone seals around the shower tray as well. Even if it was strange to be overheard, Jozef liked what he saw: all the tiles lining up precisely at the corners. He told the developer:
“We deliver good workmanship, yes?”
And the man threw a last, grudging look around the ensuite.
He left Jozef with three catalogues of bathroom fittings, with Post-it notes marking the relevant pages. Jozef made all the phone calls, costing everything up—steel shower rails and towel rails and taps—but then he didn’t place any orders. It was hot again, and nearly the weekend, and the past few days had started badly but finished well, with plenty of good work completed, even if the developer
Brenda ran a duster over the frame, that ecstatic face, every Wednesday afternoon. And the Sacred Heart in the bedroom too, that gave her the creeps at first, but she’d grown immune. She’d never told the family that her Dad was an Orangeman, although Brenda did think it might appeal to them, their sense of humour. The kids were all grown now, and she’d heard them ribbing their mother about that Rome photo, and Mrs. C laughing too, saying she’d come over all heat-of-the-moment at the sight of His Holiness. But Brenda still kept her little secret. Life was just that bit easier sometimes, if you glossed over the details.
Mrs. C looked after her grandson now, on days her daughter worked, and her husband doted on the baby. He let him fall asleep in his arms instead of the cot, and he went down to the Celtic shop too, to get him a baby-sized strip, with a bib to catch the dribbles, in the same green and white, with
Papa’s Little Tim
printed across the middle.
So maybe Tim could be funny now. Brenda didn’t know. She crouched down next to Stevie anyhow; his small face still a bit teary, a bit wary. He asked her:
“You gonnae say tae Uncle Eric?”
Brenda sighed: she hadn’t yet decided. She told him:
“We’ll have tae give it back, aye? His picture.”
Stevie shook his head:
“I took it for my Maw, but.”
He’d taken it for Lindsey.
This boy was full of surprises. Brenda didn’t know what to say to that, so Stevie just turned to his mother, and buried his face in the folds of her T-shirt.
“Aw, son.” Lindsey put her arms about him. She still had hold of the drawing, and it looked like she wanted to keep it.
Brenda caught sight of her brother’s lines again, the way he’d sketched his Frances, comfortable, middle-aged, still lovely. She wondered if it was a new one. It hurt to look at, so she thought it must hurt to draw it.
She didn’t know if they should put it back. If they should risk that. Brenda didn’t think she could face Eric’s today in any case. She rubbed her forehead and looked about herself, at the wide hall and all the woodwork; all these hours they’d been here, and the floors still had to be mopped. They’d spent half the morning in someone else’s house, going into things that still cut so deep. That shouldn’t still hurt so much, surely. Only they did.
10
The boys had tiled two walls in the main bathroom by late Thursday morning and—stealing aside—Jozef was impressed. There was no way they’d manage both bathrooms by Friday, but he didn’t tell them that: they were keen and he knew this was to his advantage. They kept on well into the evening, until it was dark enough to need the lights on, and by the time they called it quits, they had only the floors left to complete.
Stevie was laying plywood in the ensuite when the developer arrived on Friday morning. The boy didn’t look up during the inspection, he just kept on with his measuring and fitting, pencil tucked behind his freckled ear, but Jozef had the uneasy feeling that he was listening to everything. To the developer’s specifications—it had to be brushed steel for all the fittings—and to how Jozef pointed out the neat silicone seals around the shower tray as well. Even if it was strange to be overheard, Jozef liked what he saw: all the tiles lining up precisely at the corners. He told the developer:
“We deliver good workmanship, yes?”
And the man threw a last, grudging look around the ensuite.
He left Jozef with three catalogues of bathroom fittings, with Post-it notes marking the relevant pages. Jozef made all the phone calls, costing everything up—steel shower rails and towel rails and taps—but then he didn’t place any orders. It was hot again, and nearly the weekend, and the past few days had started badly but finished well, with plenty of good work completed, even if the developer
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