trying to fit everyone into the same mould. This is the way it should be taken. Just like the Russians drink their vodka. Ice cold. Even better straight from the freezer.’
‘I thought you drank Pernod.’
‘Just a phase we go through,’ said Jack, and glanced at Kara as if seeking approval. ‘We’re Scottish. So we should be drinking Scotch. Right?’
‘Becoming patriotic in your old age?’ Kara said.
‘And proud of it.’ Jack lifted his glass to Gilchrist. ‘To Mum,’ then to Kara, who held hers up in silent salutation.
‘And to the memory of the good times we used to share,’ Gilchrist said, and felt his throat burn as the whisky wormed into his system. He watched Kara ease her tumbler towards Jack’s, then take a sip, and something in her hesitancy warned him that all was not well between Kara and his son.
Gilchrist and Jack spent the next hour reminiscing, with Kara silent on the sidelines. They touched on life together as a family, Gilchrist recalling the fight Jack and Maureen had over who was going to sit first on the swan potty, and how in the end they sat on it together. The sight of their two little faces straining in unison had sent Gilchrist into fits. Looking back, he could see that, even then, Gail had begun to lose her sense of humour. The swan potty had disappeared not long after.
Gilchrist revealed to Jack how, on the first night after Gail’s departure, he had ended up drunk and flat on his back in the Whey Pat Tavern, where his relationship with Gail had first begun, and how he had struggled to hold back his tears. He was surprised when Jack told him Gail had cried, too. And throughout their reminiscing, Gilchrist was conscious of Kara being sidelined. She seemed to brighten when he suggested they return home, and after Jack swallowed his third one-for-the-road, they set off.
Back home, Jack did his best to finish The Macallan 10 before midnight, and all the while Kara sat on the edge of the sofa, like some stranger seated on the periphery of a family gathering. Just after midnight, she excused herself, and was about to step from the living room when Gilchrist stood.
‘S’too early for bed, Andy. Come on, man. Sit. Have another one.’
‘I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning,’ Gilchrist said to Kara.
Kara stretched up to give him a peck on the cheek. As he watched her slim figure leave the room without acknowledging Jack, he lifted his hand to where her lips had pressed, not sure if the dampness he felt on his cheek was from her lipstick or her tears.
He stared at his refilled glass. The Macallan 10 was almost done. He turned to Jack, wanted to ask him about Kara, but the effort to speak seemed too much. He tried a sip, but the whisky no longer slid down his throat like warmed oil, and had to be forced back with a painful grimace. Heartburn nipped at his gut. He would suffer for this in the morning.
He pushed his glass to the side. ‘I’ve had it,’ he said.
Jack held up the bottle. ‘C’mon, Andy. Still some left.’
‘It won’t go to waste, Jack. Goodnight.’
As he left the room, he caught Jack topping up his glass.
Morning hit Gilchrist with the shock of a blaring radio alarm and the dazed realization that he was in someone else’s bed. He turned his head to the tinny din. Pain shot through his neck. He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt as dry as cardboard. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue felt thick and stiff as if it belonged to something else.
He struggled on to his side and managed to switch off the alarm. The display read 6.33. Why had he set it so early? Could he have just ten more minutes?
When he next looked, the alarm clock read 7.39.
He pulled the continental quilt to the side, felt a rush of cold air hit him. As his feet hit the floor he felt some measure of comfort that he’d had the sense and the decency to undress before going to bed.
He made it to the bathroom without stubbing his toes on unfamiliar furniture, or
‘I thought you drank Pernod.’
‘Just a phase we go through,’ said Jack, and glanced at Kara as if seeking approval. ‘We’re Scottish. So we should be drinking Scotch. Right?’
‘Becoming patriotic in your old age?’ Kara said.
‘And proud of it.’ Jack lifted his glass to Gilchrist. ‘To Mum,’ then to Kara, who held hers up in silent salutation.
‘And to the memory of the good times we used to share,’ Gilchrist said, and felt his throat burn as the whisky wormed into his system. He watched Kara ease her tumbler towards Jack’s, then take a sip, and something in her hesitancy warned him that all was not well between Kara and his son.
Gilchrist and Jack spent the next hour reminiscing, with Kara silent on the sidelines. They touched on life together as a family, Gilchrist recalling the fight Jack and Maureen had over who was going to sit first on the swan potty, and how in the end they sat on it together. The sight of their two little faces straining in unison had sent Gilchrist into fits. Looking back, he could see that, even then, Gail had begun to lose her sense of humour. The swan potty had disappeared not long after.
Gilchrist revealed to Jack how, on the first night after Gail’s departure, he had ended up drunk and flat on his back in the Whey Pat Tavern, where his relationship with Gail had first begun, and how he had struggled to hold back his tears. He was surprised when Jack told him Gail had cried, too. And throughout their reminiscing, Gilchrist was conscious of Kara being sidelined. She seemed to brighten when he suggested they return home, and after Jack swallowed his third one-for-the-road, they set off.
Back home, Jack did his best to finish The Macallan 10 before midnight, and all the while Kara sat on the edge of the sofa, like some stranger seated on the periphery of a family gathering. Just after midnight, she excused herself, and was about to step from the living room when Gilchrist stood.
‘S’too early for bed, Andy. Come on, man. Sit. Have another one.’
‘I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning,’ Gilchrist said to Kara.
Kara stretched up to give him a peck on the cheek. As he watched her slim figure leave the room without acknowledging Jack, he lifted his hand to where her lips had pressed, not sure if the dampness he felt on his cheek was from her lipstick or her tears.
He stared at his refilled glass. The Macallan 10 was almost done. He turned to Jack, wanted to ask him about Kara, but the effort to speak seemed too much. He tried a sip, but the whisky no longer slid down his throat like warmed oil, and had to be forced back with a painful grimace. Heartburn nipped at his gut. He would suffer for this in the morning.
He pushed his glass to the side. ‘I’ve had it,’ he said.
Jack held up the bottle. ‘C’mon, Andy. Still some left.’
‘It won’t go to waste, Jack. Goodnight.’
As he left the room, he caught Jack topping up his glass.
Morning hit Gilchrist with the shock of a blaring radio alarm and the dazed realization that he was in someone else’s bed. He turned his head to the tinny din. Pain shot through his neck. He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt as dry as cardboard. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue felt thick and stiff as if it belonged to something else.
He struggled on to his side and managed to switch off the alarm. The display read 6.33. Why had he set it so early? Could he have just ten more minutes?
When he next looked, the alarm clock read 7.39.
He pulled the continental quilt to the side, felt a rush of cold air hit him. As his feet hit the floor he felt some measure of comfort that he’d had the sense and the decency to undress before going to bed.
He made it to the bathroom without stubbing his toes on unfamiliar furniture, or
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