Page 9 of Take Me Away

‘Don’t forget we need pumpkins,’ Maisie says, tugging on her shoes after she’s skidded back down the stairs, like the world might end if we don’t start now. ‘Proper ones. Not from Dot’s shop.’

‘It’s still at least five weeks away, and a pumpkin’s a pumpkin,’ I mutter, half wrestling with the zip on her coat and then opening the door so the wind barrels in, smelling of woodsmoke and wet leaves.

‘Four, Dad. Four weeks,’ she says, holding up four fingers to make sure I understand. I’ve noticed her doing this a lot of late, checking that her slow-ass dad can keep up with societal pressures, like remembering to buy an overpriced and inedible vegetables.

I watch her bounce ahead of me down the path, hair sticking out from under her rain hat, full of opinions and plans.

Pumpkins. Costumes. School disco drama. I used to spend Halloween with a pint in one hand and no idea what day it was. Now I’m comparing carving tools and pretending I understand Pinterest.

God help me when she’s a teenager.

After I’ve dropped her at school I head back to the cottage to grab my stuff and check on Cap before heading down to the harbour for the morning. I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror while scraping engine grease from under my nails. Christ, I look rough.

Thirty years old and I look forty. The beard needs a trim – more grey creeping in than I’d like. Hair’s too long, curling at the edges the way it did when Jess used to run her fingers through it, laughing when the salt made it stick up.

There are lines around my eyes now. Grief lines. Sleepless nights and early mornings and two years of single parenting. My hands are rope-scarred, knuckles swollen from the cold, calluses so thick I barely feel pain anymore.

I used to be someone else. Someone whole. Someone who believed love lasted.

I splash water on my face and head out. The boats won’t fix themselves, and standing here staring at the ghost in the mirror won’t change a damn thing.

I make it until the afternoon before Jude finally catches up with village gossip. Slow for him. He’s clearly distracted. ‘Heard the news then?’

He drops his toolbox with a bang loud enough to startle seagulls. He’s grinning like he knows exactly where to stick the knife – and how deep.

I don’t look up from Harding and Sons’ boat engine. The Mary Jane is being stubborn this morning, and so am I.

‘What news.’ No question mark. I already know where this is going.

‘Someone’s back.’ Jude leans against the gunwale, easing weight off that busted leg of his. It’s a permanent reminder of a storm I still see in my sleep. He’s wearing the classic fisherman uniform of navy wool, but his is paired with a Yankee baseball cap pulled down onto his sandy hair. We have totally different colouring, which, when I was young and he was trailing me like a clinging weed that won’t let go, I used to say was sure evidence he was adopted.

My grip tightens on the wrench.

‘Someone famous,’ he adds, smirk miles wide.

Twenty-four hours. I should’ve stopped giving a shit by now.

I tighten the bolt too hard. Something snaps.

‘Don’t care.’ Metal clunks to the deck. ‘Fuck’s sake.’

Jude chuckles. Bastard. But he doesn’t walk away. I don’t know if it’s a younger brother thing, to be as annoying as hell and take enormous pride in it, but he nails it daily. ‘Frankie said she looked good. Bit thinner than you’d remember, but⁠—’

‘I said I don’t care.’ My voice cracks like an oar across a bench. ‘And in case you haven’t noticed recently, I’ve got my hands full of real life.’

Jude whistles low. ‘I can’t believe you’re still bitter. After all this time? Most blokes would be bragging they⁠—’

‘Don’t.’ I straighten slowly, turning to face him. My glare usually ends conversations. ‘I’m not bitter. I’m busy.’ I wipe my hands on a rag. It smears more grease than it clears. Appropriate. ‘Some of us have work to do, instead of flapping our gums like old biddies at the post office.’

He grins. Doesn’t budge. He’s always been like a dog with a bone when he smells blood in the water.

‘You loved her.’

‘I was eighteen. And stupid. Then I grew up.’

‘First love⁠—’

‘She left, Jude, I couldn’t give a crap about her.’ I slam the rag down. Can’t believe he’s pushing this. ‘I’m still mourning my wife. I don’t need you banging on about a woman I once used to know, before I lost the love of my life to a bastard disease that ruined everything.’