“So, you’re here for the birthday boy? The party, I mean?”
“Aye, I suppose. Truth be told, I am wherever anyone decides to wheel me.” She taps the arms of her wheelchair.
“Oh. Yes. I see.”
“But at my age, I’m just happy to still be here. And here’s my favourite wee men!” June holds out her arms as the Duffy boys come running along the terrace with Hugh and Archie in tow.
“June-y!” Harris, the younger of the two boys, throws his arms around the woman, almost climbing into her lap.
“Hello, my wee laddie! Oh, so strong you are. Such a squeeze! You’re like Arnold Schwartzhisface! Now.” She sets him back again, brushing the hair from his face. “Introduce me to your wee pals.”
“This is Hugh and Archie. They’re here for a sleepover.”
“Goodness, you are old!” Archie blurts out, his face turning immediately red as he slaps both hands to his mouth.
“Archie!” his brother hisses, pulling on his arm. “I apologise for my brother. That was unforgivably rude. You, you, don’t look old at all.”
“Oh, but I am old,” June replies, hunching her shoulders forward like an old crone.
“How old, exactly?” Archie asks, clearly fascinated.
“Mummy says you should never ask a woman her age,” Hugh whispers, horrified.
“Wise advice, laddie. But I don’t mind tellin’ ye I’m seven hundred and three.”
“Really?” Archie’s expression twists. “I know trees can get that old, but not people.”
“You are so literal,” Hugh mutters, making the word sound more like idiot as he rolls his eyes.
“Most people die before they get to one hundred,” Archie adds.
“Aye, but most people don’t cook small children in the oven to eat, do they?”
I guess it’s hard to scare kids who live in a place with a dungeon. But all four boys are happy when June produces a bag of candy from her purse on the back of her wheelchair, and begins to dole the contents out liberally.
“Off you go, now,” she says, shooing them with one pale, papery hand. “I can’t be sharing my lunch with ye.” From the bag, she pulls out a pink candy in the shape of a small ear, popping it into her mouth. Giggles turn to squeals, and the boys run off.
June sighs happily, her dentures clacking on the chewy candy. “I reckon those boys are the only reason the good Lord keeps me on this side of the grass. Well, them and him,” she adds with a sly twist to her mouth. I follow the path of her gaze to where a young man in blue scrubs is approaching. “That’s my nurse, Raphaël.” She smiles saucily. “He gives one hell of a bed bath.”
“Ivy’s looking for you,” says the man in a rhythmical Spanish accent.
“Och, she’ll be wantin’ to set my hair.” She pats her silver curls. “Like she doesn’t have enough to do today.”
“You know she likes to take care of you.” Raphaël, the nurse, squats down in front of her.
“Because she’s a sweetheart, just like you.” June pats his cheek. “And the good Lord gave you the kind of bahoochie to keep an auld woman alive.”
Bahoochie is butt, as I recall. Scandalised! Though not really. Good for June! And maybe Raphaël is new to the idiosyncrasies of the Scot language.
“You are a big flirt.” Dispelling my theory, he flicks his eyes my way as he presses his hand over June’s to keep it there. “All mouth and no trousers.” The idiom sounds a lot more flirtatious in his accent. And I’ll admit to a little tummy twist as he sends me a wink.
“I’m just too old to work what you keep in your trousers, laddie. Maybe Holly here could make good use of it?”
“Oh, no. I mean, I’m—” Did she really just offer me her nurse’s—
“Life is too short to pass up a good ride, believe me, hen.”
Raphaël laughs and waggles his finger her way. “You’re making her blush.”
“Like you’re complaining. Go on, take her out of the way and show her what she’d be missing.” She turns to me then, tapping her nose. “He has a stash of the good mari-joo-wana. For medical purposes, o’ course.”
“Come on, cupid.” The man straightens, leaving his (scrub concealed) junk in the general vicinity of June’s gaze.
“Such a shame to waste good cock. It’s my favourite word,” she says as her gaze swings my way, her blue eyes bright over the top of her sunglasses. “Such a braw, virile word is cock.”
“Come.” Raphaël moves behind her and grabs the handles of her wheelchair.
“I would, but the apparatus is broke!”
He disengages the brake and wheels June around so fast she giggles like a little girl on a swing. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Erm, maybe!”
What the hell just happened here?
42
Alexander
I see her long before she sees me. Long before my sister notices her arrival, so I alone get to watch her glide down the stairs. All lithe legs and sure steps, she holds her chin high. It’s part of the version of Holland she wants us to see, that she insists upon.
It’s been days. An eternity. And it turns out, sleeping under a different roof hasn’t helped me sleep any better. I want her with the same fervour. Perhaps even more. And I should perhaps feel bad for how I’m about to behave this evening.
But I don’t.
One more evening of playacting. Only, this time it’s my turn.
It had taken Van’s phone call, not that he’d talked any sense. Suggesting he’d steal Holland from under me was nothing short of ridiculous. Instead, at the end of the call, I’d found myself undergoing a light-bulb moment. A eureka! Or maybe more a moment where I’d realised I hadn’t been paying attention all along.
Holland wants to be seen. Or at least, she wants people to see the version of herself she’s created. By contrast, I never want to be seen for fear of the truth of my life coming out. But something has to give, and I’ve decided that needs to be me.
I need to give less of a fuck of being judged for who I was. For what I did.
I’m letting go of the past and letting the cards fall where they may.
I’m going to take care of the present and let the past take care of itself.
When I’d found her in the garden after that phone call, the seed of thought had sprouted and grown into a vine. A vine that wrapped itself around me. And under the roof of the dilapidated folly, with grass in her hair and that damp T-shirt sticking to her, I’d wanted to drag her out into the open, strip her naked in the rain, and claim her. To see the water cascade from her curves. But the vine gripped me tight for a reason. It held my arms to my sides as I used my mouth for something other than the worship of her.
I told her, “I see you.”
I see her for who she is, not the version she wants me to see or the version she wants other people to see. The woman she pretends to be. I see the woman who’d go to the pains of hiding a fucking statue so as not to bring a woman she cares for more trouble than she already has on her plate. I see the woman my nephews dote on. I see the woman who has inspired the kind of loyalty in just a few weeks that might take lesser people years. Yet none of this matters because without all the goodness in her, I know I would still want her because she’s so much more. She’s funny and quick-witted and despite the trials she’s suffered, she’s still willing to take life by the horns and fucking ride it. The bottom line is, no matter what life throws her way, she isn’t afraid to try. Except when it comes to me.