Page 22 of Little Wing
‘Are you joining us?’ asked one of the group, an elderly gentleman whose moustache was so white it looked violet.
‘I’m useless at cards,’ Nell laughed.
‘Nonsense,’ said her mother. ‘You used to beat us all hands down – from when you were knee high! Watch it – she’s bluffing! She has the best poker face in the world. Watch her like a hawk, I tell you – don’t be fooled.’
Nell couldn’t remember ever winning a card game against her mother, not even snap.
‘Are you joining us?’ the man asked again.
‘It looks like quite a tournament and the stakes are high – I don’t want to interrupt,’ Nell said, but she hovered and everyone looked at her as if to sayyou’re hovering. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Goodnight!’ the man said cheerily.
‘Aces high!’ her mother was calling out.
‘Mum – I won’t see you till next weekend, so I brought these back.’ Nell produced the Coronation trio to oohs and aahs. ‘I’ll pop up to your room and leave them there.’
Everyone looked at the space Nell left.
‘Daughter?’ someone said.
‘I thought you didn’t have any children?’ said another.
‘It’s not mine,’ she said.
And no one was sure if she was talking about the china or Nell.
Dougie
At the services north of Lockerbie, Dougie sat and contemplated the plate in front of him, now denuded of the enormous cooked breakfast save for a smear of brown sauce and two baked beans suffocating under the skin that was all he had left of the grilled tomato. He’d been there over an hour and he hadn’t yet phoned his father. He told himself this was so that he could make the visit a surprise but he also knew that this enabled him to change his mind and his father would be none the wiser. He needed to work it all out.
There was one ferry crossing and it was at 3 p.m. but he was almost 300 miles from Uig in Skye. He knew, realistically, he wouldn’t make it. It would take six and a half hours on a good run but the weather was squalling already; the rain flinging hostility at the window by which he sat. It was a day for the indoors, not a day for a ferry crossing or hurrying in bad weather through the Highlands. Nor should he be spending hours southbound on motorways.
It was a day to stay put.
‘Get you anything else?’ The waiter seemed to hope not.
How could he still be hungry?
‘Um.’ He scoured the menu. ‘I’ll take a couple of rounds of toast, please.’
‘White or brown?’
‘Brown, please.’
‘We’re out of brown.’
‘White, then.’
‘Drink?’
‘Bit early, isn’t it?’
His joke was lost on the waiter.
‘Tea. No – make it coffee,’ he said. ‘I’ve a hellish long drive ahead.’
The waiter wasn’t remotely interested.
