The Lover's Children

Chapter 3 - Winter Wedding #2

GEORGIE

Shaking down my umbrella, I reverse indoors from the porch, trying to deposit the drips beyond the

threshold. Then, dumping the brolly in the stand by the door, and checking I’ve not left anything of

value in the pockets, hang my dripping coat on a hook.

But turning into the cosy welcome of the bar, once more, I hesitate.

Although it’s early, the crowd is building up: Friday night revellers, all laughing and joking; groups of

guys, gangs of girls. One set looks like the ‘Boy’s Christmas Night Out’, the group swilling beer,

exchanging football critique and off-colour jokes. Another looks to be a hen party: giggling girls in

matching printed tee-shirts…

Bridesmaids…

Bride…

Hangers-on…

Here for the booze…

… and red tinsel headbands…

Ridiculous…

… the women shriek with laughter, knocking back vodka.

Couples sit quietly at tables, their heads close. Some talk quietly. Others look over menus. Some just

stare out, swaying slightly or tapping fingers on the tabletops to the rhythm of the music. Others are

singing along…

…. I played my drum for Him pa-rum pum pum pum

I played my best for Him pa -rum pum pum pum…

Then, there’s me…

… dressed in my finery.

Alone…

I start to back out, but beyond the door, rain hammers onto the sidewalk. So instead, I take a spot at

the end of the bar.

“What can I get you?” The barman gives me obligatory cheap smile, measuring me with his eyes.

Party dress…

Made-up…

No wedding ring…

Nice tits…

I open my mouth to order a glass of white wine, then…

Fuck it…

“Whisky.”

He hesitates, eyes a little narrowed. Then, reaching up to the display of bottles behind the bar, “Any

brand in particular?” Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

I scan the choice. “I’ll have a Lagavulin. A large one.”

He raises his brows, smiling a little. “Coming up. Ice?”

“No.”

Amber fluid splashes into a glass and I cradle it, inhaling the scents of peat and smoke and molasses.

It sets a trail glowing down my throat, then heats me from the inside. But I know the warmth isn’t real.

Alcohol helps, but it’s no substitute for…

For what?

What am I missing?

I don’t know. But something within aches…

The whisky should be sipped, but I gulp it down, knowing I’m only masking the empty place inside.

Hunched over the bar, I cup the tumbler in my hands, staring down into the contents. Warmed by its

fake heat, I’m vaguely aware that next to me, a couple of guys are chatting over a beer apiece. A little

longer and I realise that one, surreptitiously, is looking me over.

Just what I need…

On the prowl…

Glass in hand, I turn to face him, square on. As he sees me staring, he turns too, looking at me

properly.

He’s a handsome man, visually striking; some variety of Scandinavian, with silver-blond hair and eyes

that passed through the blue of the sky and settled in the glacier. His forehead furrows. “I’m sorry, but

do we know each other?”

Oh… God…

“That’s a bit of a tired line, isn’t it? I mean, it’s hardly original.”

He blinks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… But you seem familiar…”

“Oh, give me a break.”

His eyes widen. He lets out air. “Well, excuse me…”

I take another gulp of the whisky, then slap the empty tumbler onto the bar. Silently, the barman slides

the glass away from me. I expect him to ask if I want a refill, but he doesn’t speak.

Crap…

I shouldn’t have done that…

I turn back to the silver-haired man. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just…” But his back is turned to me. Beyond

him, his friend meets my eye, raising brows, then also looks away.

*****

KLEMPNER

Mitch leads the way to breakfast. I follow her, carrying Vicky in her travel-cot.

My wife…

My daughter…

Ahead of us, the kitchen is a cacophony of clamour and clatter and chatter, echoing down the hall.

My mouth is dry…

Why?

A normal life…

I wanted this…

James, in jeans and a cable-knit pullover, sleeves rolled up, is at the hob, moving between pans and

plates and grill like a conjurer on speed. He flashes a smile at Mitch as she enters; nods an

acknowledgement to me as I hesitate in the doorway, then pauses, looking fixedly at me for a moment.

Mitch takes a seat next to Jenny, pulling up a side-table…

My other daughter…

… who is occupied with feeding Cara…

My grandchild...

Seated in a highchair, her face and bib are spattered yellow as Jenny spoons something eggy into her

mouth. The tray of the chair swims with God-knows-what.

Right next to Cara, Beth feeds Adam bright orange mush. It’s a messy process. His tray too, and the

plastic mat on the floor, accommodating both chairs, is a slush-bespattered disaster zone.

Jenny holds back a bright green Mickey Mouse spoon, loaded with egg. “Here comes the aeroplane…”

The spoon makes an arc through the air and Cara, burbling, opens her mouth wide.

At the last moment, chubby fingers grab the spoon from Jenny, aiming more-or-less at their owner’s

face. A small portion of the food is delivered to her mouth. The remainder slops down face, bib and

tray. Cara tries again, jabbing down into the bowl of egg with the spoon, scooping up a little, spilling

most. Next to her, Adam has lost interest in his orange slop, stretching out wriggling fingers to Cara’s

bowl.

Jenny watches with critical eye, then slices toast into finger-sized pieces, giving one to Cara and

offering another to Adam. He grabs it, then champs at the end, not so much eating it, as pulverising it.

Mitch pats the side-table. “Just pop Vicky down here, would you, Larry.” As I set down the cot, she

produces her bag of baby-feeding kit.

At the other side of the table, Michael is telling some tale to Haswell, illustrating his words with waves

of a toast-clutching hand. He breaks off halfway through as Adam raises a wail of protest, pudgy arms

still grabbing toward Cara’s bowl.

Normal life?

Complete fucking chaos…

James, poking at a sizzling frying pan, flicks eyes to mine, away to his pan, then back to me, once

more holding for a moment. He sweeps the room with his gaze. Returns to me. Head inclining, he

smiles slightly and nods me to a seat. “Larry, poached eggs?”

“Thank you, yes.”

“Two or three?”

“Two, please. But I’ll do it. I can see you have your hands full.”

He wavers, reluctance shining out. “It’s not a problem. I can manage. Take a seat.”

“I’m happy to help...” Still, he hesitates… “I didn’t realise your control issues extended to the kitchen.”

James’ expression darkens. Mitch coughs and lays a hand on my arm. “Larry, it’s James’ kitchen. He’s

in charge here.”

Was that rude of me?

Perhaps…

Injecting the joke into my voice, “My plans for world domination didn’t include ousting James from his

beloved hob. I was just trying to…”

James awards me a dry look, then turns for the fridge. “Poached eggs coming up. Let’s all play to our

strengths.” The toaster clicks and four golden slices pop up. “Help yourself to toast.” He regards the

toaster critically, sucking in his cheeks. “I need to get a bigger one, don’t I.”

The doorbell rings. Michael stands, half a slice of toast in hand, still chewing. “I'll get it. Are we

expecting anyone?”

Mitch looks up from Vicky's bottle. “I'm giving Kirstie the final fitting for her wedding dress this morning.

Ryan’s probably with her.”

As Michael exits the kitchen, Cara bangs on the tray of her high chair, with her spoon, setting the

plastic bowl rattling. Vicky burbles and hiccups. Beside Beth, Adam joins in with Cara, banging his own

spoon.

Michael returns with a smiling Ryan, a beaming Kirstie.

“Kirstie! Ryan!” Voices rise. Chairs scrape back from the table to make space as Michael pulls in one

extra chair, Haswell another.

James cracks eggs into simmering water, then puts the lid on the pan and sets it to one side. “You two

joining us for breakfast?”

Ryan rubs at his arms. “Thanks. Don't mind if I do, James. It's cold out there.”

Mugs and plates clatter. Adam and Cara start a mush-throwing contest. Jenny and Beth relieve them of

their spoons and bowls, then lift them out of the highchairs, placing them in a playpen set to one side.

How do people stand this all the time?

Two perfectly poached eggs, nestled on golden toast, are set before me, two more in front of Kirstie

and Ryan, and James finally sits down to his own breakfast, actually just a slice of toast and black

coffee. “So, if it’s not world domination today, Larry, what’s on your timetable?”

I pour myself more coffee, keeping my attention on pot and mug. “Nothing in particular.”

In truth, the day yawns ahead of me. Boredom is a new experience.

What do people do with their time?

A normal life…

*****