Most of RoadTrail will be here soon, Jarvis and Steve are on their way over and Sheila is due to arrive after lunch. But for now, it’s just Dad and me.
‘We’ve got ’em on the rails, I reckon,’ he says between munches. ‘They had us last year but we in’t about to roll over again.’
‘It’s a good team,’ I reply, enjoying the sun on my shoulders as it reaches our side of the ground.
‘It is.’ He reaches for another handful of scratchings. ‘So, how you getting on in that old house?’
‘Nothing’s broken yet.’
He nods. ‘Give it time. And your chap?’
‘Joe’s not my chap.’
‘Housemate, then. Is he treating you well?’
I have to laugh at the formality of the question. ‘He hasn’t broken me yet.’
‘Ottilie!’
‘Sorry. We’re fine. We’re writing together now.’
‘Are you?’ I can tell by the sudden drop of his bushy eyebrows over his blue eyes what Dad thinks of this.
‘Russell put us together. It took us a while but it seems to be working.’
‘Well, as long as you’ve still got a job.’ He jumps to his feet, staring at the game. ‘Catch it! Catch it!’ His groan joins those of our fellow fans as he resumes his seat. ‘What kind of a catch was that? Anyone’d think they’d buttered the ball.’
Dad’s sudden emotional outbursts at cricket matches never cease to amuse me. It’s a sign of home. This has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. Sitting in the same stand, in roughly the same seats (not too close to the exit, not too close to the front), in all weathers, sharing snacks, sandwiches and flasks of tea with Dad and any number of family members, friends and RoadTrail people. But the way I’ve always liked it best is like today: Dad and me.
‘Any luck with finding my replacement?’ I ask. Dad made some noises a while ago about looking, but I’ve heard nothing since.
‘I told you, I’m not replacing you.’
‘You need someone else in the workshop,’ I begin, but Dad’s tut stops me.
‘Bab, you may need it. That job of yours might be peachy right now, but I’ve heard it’s a fickle business and they’re just as likely to drop you as take you on.’
‘Russell loves what I’m writing with Joe. I think we’re going to be there a long time.’
‘Well, let’s hope so.’
‘You still need to get someone in.’
His stares at the bag of scratchings in his palm. ‘I know.’
‘Even if you want it to be a short-term thing.’
‘I know, Otts. My life, you sound like Sheila.’
‘Well, maybe we both have a point.’
He waves off my suggestion with all the irritation of a man frequently called out for his daft stubbornness. He’ll get there in the end, I’m sure. He’ll have to: I’ve risked too much to be working at Ensign and I’m not going back.
The Yorkshire batsman, who has been sitting pretty at the crease for the last half-hour, suddenly hits the ball awkwardly – and we’re on our feet. I hold my breath as the ball sails out across the field, our team racing to meet it. And then it drops like a dream into the fielder’s hand and the entire stand erupts. Dad and I hug and I swear the sun shines brighter than it did a moment ago. Grinning at the other Warwickshire fans around us, we retake our seats.
Dad mops his brow with an imaginary handkerchief and whistles. ‘Got ’im! Better late than never, eh?’ He smiles and pats my knee. ‘Good to have you here, bab. Been too long.’
‘I know. It’s just so busy at work. I’ve hardly had time to think.’
‘You work hard. Always have.’ He takes another pork scratching from the bag and chews thoughtfully. ‘You know, Sheila was asking how you were getting on.’
The compliment creaks beneath heavy emphasis. ‘I’ll see her today, though,’ I reply, my stomach knotting. I feel bad about not seeing Sheila since I left Dad’s place. I love her – always will – but it’s not straightforward to see her outside of RoadTrail anymore.
‘You know, Chris is back in town.’
And that’s why.
‘I thought he was in Oxford?’ Nerves lift the end of my question to an uncomfortable pitch and I cough to try to pull back control. The wording of his text returns to my mind: I have news. Was that what he wanted to tell me?
‘He was.’ Dad watches me carefully. ‘But he reckons there was too much calling him home.’
The exhilaration from the catch fades as a cloud drifts across the sun. I watch a line of shadow sweep across the cricket ground, dulling everything.
‘So where’s he working now?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Some sort of freelance consultancy blah-de-blah. That techy stuff of his is beyond me. Point is, he’s back. And Sheila says he’s practically a different man.’
I know where this is heading. I’d hoped to avoid the subject, seeing as we’ve been here for almost three hours without Dad mentioning it. But that was too optimistic, even for me. Of course it isn’t over with. It might never be.
‘Well, that’s good for him. And nice for Sheila too, I imagine, having him closer.’
‘Oh, she’s over the moon. I am, too. Always loved the lad. Despite… you know.’
I hold my breath, willing something to happen on the pitch that steals his attention and robs his train of thought.
Yeah, like that’s going to happen.
‘Maybe… you could see him now he’s back? Chat things over?’
‘No.’
‘Couldn’t hurt.’
Muscles knot across my shoulders. My chest grows tight. I didn’t want a fight today but I’m not going to back down on this. ‘No, Dad. It could hurt – a lot. We said all we had to a year ago.’
Dad’s arms fold across his chest and I can feel lines being drawn between us. ‘No, bab, you did. As I recall, poor Chris didn’t get a look-in.’
Poor Chris. Here we go. ‘You don’t know what happened.’
‘I know what he told me. And Sheila.’
‘And what about what I told you?’ I catch the stares of the group seated behind us and pull my voice back to an angry whisper. ‘If Chris is getting on with his life then great, but there is nothing else for us to talk about.’
‘You could be married by now. Maybe thinking of kids. Most girls your age already have them.’
It’s pointless. Dad just isn’t designed to accept that I could want anything other than marriage and kids. He married Mum the day after her nineteenth birthday and they had me when she was twenty-one. Even Mum divorcing him and shacking up with a tour rep half her age in Magaluf didn’t shake his hope for Chris and me. We’d grown up together, after all, our families as close as if we were all blood-related. Chris asked me out at the school disco in our GCSE year, and from then on everyone assumed we were heading for the altar. Looking back, I have the worrying suspicion my dad and Sheila agreed our future together when Chris and I were still in nappies.
‘I’m happy where I am, Dad.’
‘But are you? Everyone gets cold feet, Otts. And I know us lot weren’t much help. We were just excited for the wedding. We’d been excited about it for years…’