‘Calm down, Cath, I was going to do all that; I just nodded off. I was down the Jobcentre today and they don’t half wear you down with all their questions.’
‘Do they? Do they wear you down? You poor, poor thing!’
Gary is sitting up now, looking at me with his eyes unusually wide. I’ve never spoken to him this way before. ‘I’m going for a shower,’ I say before something I’ll regret pops out of my mouth.
When I come back down, I hear rustling in the kitchen and a pang of guilt hits me when I realise he must finally be fixing the fridge. Maybe that’s what he needed all along: some tough love. I tiptoe towards the door. I don’t want an awkward conversation about it, nor do I want to disturb him and give him reason to stop so I make a mental decision to just thank him when it’s done by treating him with my windfall money. He used to like golf. Perhaps I could buy him some time at the driving range.
I hover in the doorway, watching his shoulders as he’s hunched over something. I wonder if it’s the broken part. I can’t profess to know anything about fridges or their accoutrements, but something about the way he’s holding himself seems odd – protective, like he’s shielding what he’s got in his hands. That’s when I notice he isn’t mending a fridge part at all; he’s got a knife wedged beneath the lid of my money tin, and he’s trying his hardest to unjam it.
The sound of it popping off makes me jump, and I gasp. Gary turns around and already in his hand is a twenty-pound note.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ I ask, shock and anger adding a punch to my tone.
‘Cath, I … er …’ He holds both palms up towards me. ‘It’s just a loan. I was going to put it back, and I saw that three-grand cheque you got from work … you can afford it.’
I don’t know what to say. The fact we came from the same DNA suddenly seems quite unbelievable. It’s as though every ounce of my goodness is mirrored by dishonesty in him. It hurts. ‘You—’ I jab a finger in his direction ‘—need to move out.’
His face pales and I notice his forehead is clammy. ‘Move out? You’re not serious. Cath, I’m sorry, I was going to put it back next week. You can’t kick me out. Where would I go?’ Desperation is etched in his features and his voice drops to a whisper. ‘You wouldn’t see your brother out on the streets, Cath, would you?’ A tremor ruffles the last three words.
I walk into the lounge, sit on the sofa and sigh. No, I wouldn’t, and he knows me too well. ‘Gary, you were trying to steal from me.’
He slumps into the armchair. ‘I was desperate. I wouldn’t have done it if you weren’t so flush, and I did ask last night if I could borrow some cash. It was just a loan, I swear.’
‘It’s the final straw, Gary.’
His eyes drop to the floor.
‘I just can’t trust you now. Not until you sort yourself out.’
‘If you kick me out now, I’ll end up on the streets.’ He throws his head into his hands.
‘You’ve been here six months now and haven’t made any progress on the job front, and I’ve allowed you to coast along. I’m as much to blame as you are.’ I gesture to his slobby, track-suited self. ‘It’s time for you to get out of this funk and then we can both have our lives back. But right now, I can’t stand to be around you.’ I want to say the words again: Get out. But I can’t do it. I can’t see him on the streets. ‘What you did is going to take me a while to come to terms with, and at this moment in time I just can’t be near you, never mind share a house with you. You’ve betrayed me in the worst possible way.’ He nods sombrely, committed to his fate, and despite my better judgement, I feel sorry for him.
‘I’m going away, and I want you gone when I get back.’ The words leave my mouth before I can think about them, and I’m not exactly sure where I’m going, but the idea of a break of some kind suddenly seems so appealing.
‘Pah. You’re going away? By yourself?’ He sneers as he speaks.
I fold my arms defiantly. ‘Yes.’
‘Where to? An exotic cruise? An Amazon trek? A camel ride across the Gobi Desert? Or is it just a soggy weekend in Brighton?’ His tone is mocking, each word fuelling a new burst of anger inside me.
I pause, and without anything better to say or any other ideas I blurt, ‘F … France.’
‘France?’ He laughs. ‘Seems a bit cultural for you. You can’t even speak French and you dropped it for GCSE. What the hell are you going to do in France?’
I’m in no mood to explain myself, and I can’t bear the thought of listening to him mock me, so instead of answering him, I bore into him with my eyes.
‘It’s none of your business. I want you gone when I get back.’
He glares back until his nerve falters and he starts to back down. He knows I mean it.
‘How long have I got?’ he asks.
I think back to Kaitlynn’s interjection. Am I brave enough to go to France alone? ‘Two weeks.’
‘Two weeks?’ He looks aghast.
‘Better start job-hunting now then.’ I smile tightly.
On board the ferry from Portsmouth, I take a solitary seat at the bar under strict instructions from Kaitlynn to have a glass of fizz to kick-start my holiday. I think ‘calm my nerves’ is more appropriate. I still can’t believe I’m doing this, going to France on my own. Well, bonjour madame indeed. I order a glass of champagne, my newly highlighted chunky lob bouncing around my shoulders as I speak. Some music starts to play and children gather around a small stage as some interestingly dressed entertainer comes out waving his arms around much to their glee.
Despite eventually showing Gary the letters, I’d not managed to change Gary’s opinions about me going to France. I’d explained why I was making the trip and how it was the Darlington family destiny, hoping to generate a spark of emotion, but he just didn’t get it. Under different circumstances, it could have been a family pilgrimage of sorts: me, Kieran and Gary tracing the rich history of our ancestor. Instead, he’d just quizzed me about what I was hoping to see or achieve since everyone involved is dead and would be unlikely to care. That stung because our mum would have cared. I don’t know why she never showed me the letters but I do know she would have cared.
I wipe the moist corner of my eye with the sleeve of my ill-fitting blazer that I’d got for eight pounds in the sale at H&M because I thought it looked smart.
In the end, I booked four weeks off work, because my manager asked me if I wouldn’t mind taking all my annual holiday in one go. It was very unusual to be granted so much leave all at once, but he said it was a quiet time of year and it was better from a staff planning point of view if I did. I think he was worried about union action if word got out that the ‘employee of the year’ didn’t take holidays. It probably sets a bad example. Plus, as Jamie said, I’d never get around to taking the remaining two weeks if I didn’t do it now. He was right, of course, and it gave Gary a decent length of time to pull his finger out.
And now here I am, sitting drinking champagne at breakfast time. I giggle and immediately look around self-consciously, but nobody seems to have noticed.
I’d briefly studied WWI poetry for my A levels, and I’d left a library copy of Wilfred Owen’s The War Poems for Gary to read, along with instructions for returning the book. He may not have any sympathy for our grandmother and the loss of her father, but he could blooming well educate himself on the horrors of the Great War and learn a little about our great-grandfather’s