Temporarily. I’ll go home tonight, then be back Friday after end of term. I’ve been so busy teaching and tutoring, I’d not got around to finding summer work yet.” She measured tea into the white ceramic teapot. “I could bring Milk.”
John gasped. “Really?”
“Of course. That old cat misses you.”
“Yaldy!” John nearly made a fist pump of joy before realizing he was still holding the knife. He moved on to the carrots, slicing with renewed vigor. “I hope you’re not doing this out of guilt.”
“Partly. But what of it?”
He snorted. “I can’t judge you for that, not after today.”
She stepped closer, running her hands over the worktop’s pitted edge. “Can you tell me how it happened? Was your father…upset?”
“I imagine he was upset, hearing his son call him a racist.”
“Oh dear.”
“It’s true.”
“I know.”
“And Fergus is Catholic.”
“Oh.”
“And I really like him.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m to carry the banner in the Orange Walk.” John scraped the sliced carrots into a bowl. “So that’s fun.”
“You must be joking.” Mum rescued a stray carrot slice before it could roll onto the floor. “You told your father you would march?”
“No, I told him I wouldn’t. Then he had a heart attack, and I told him I would.”
“Oh John.”
“Don’t.” He rested his hands atop the head of cabbage. “Don’t ‘Oh-John’ me. I’m ‘Oh-John’ing enough for the both of us.”
“Dating a Catholic man while belonging to the Orange Order is a recipe for disaster. Why would you risk losing someone who’s already shown he’ll be there when you need him?”
“Dad needs me too. And Fergus won’t find out.” I hope. “He’s going to a music festival in Loch Lomond that day. And I told Dad I’d only do the Ibrox Lodge’s local parade, not the big citywide one that afternoon.” He couldn’t risk any of his uni mates seeing him downtown. “Then I’ll quit the Order forever. So it’s all sorted. One more march. Just one more march.”
John didn’t tell her how he’d nearly confessed to Fergus in the waiting room. In that moment, he’d felt the secret would burst open his chest. Now, with a cooler head, he knew what would’ve happened next—Fergus would have walked out and never spoken to him again, much less touched or kissed him.
“Even if Fergus never knows, you’ll always know.” Mum laid a gentle but firm hand on John’s arm. “If you do another Orange Walk, you’ll forever hate yourself.”
He looked down into her clear, dark eyes. “I already hate myself. So I’ve a good headstart on forever.”
Mum scowled, her lower lip jutting out. “Who gie ye aw this angst, ma wee lad? Ye were ne’er sae dour when ye were a wean.”
He smiled at her purposeful lapse into Lowland Scots, usually suppressed by her schoolteacher’s propriety. He replied in kind: “It’s no frae ma mither, by ma certies. She’s a blythe lassie aw the day and aw the nicht.”
“Better believe I am.” The kettle whistled, so she moved away to pour the water. “I’ll be glad to see Harry more often. He’s old enough now to appreciate being spoiled by his gran.” She chuckled. “Speaking of grans…” Mum held up the red-and-blue Rangers tea cosy her own mother had knitted years ago.
Then she covered her mouth as her smile widened. “Your Fergus,” she said with a titter, “is he a Celtic fan?”
John sighed and bent his head in mock mourning. “Aye.”
“Ah, well.” Mum picked up the kettle. “I suppose no one’s perfect.”
= = =
Fergus was in desperate need of a shower. But more than that, he needed answers.
Sitting cross-legged on his bed—where he’d replaced the Celtic blanket—he opened his laptop and typed in John’s address.
The mapping website put a red flag on a location about half a mile south of the River Clyde. John had said he lived in the Ibrox section of Glasgow—parts of which were quite fashionable—but this
John gasped. “Really?”
“Of course. That old cat misses you.”
“Yaldy!” John nearly made a fist pump of joy before realizing he was still holding the knife. He moved on to the carrots, slicing with renewed vigor. “I hope you’re not doing this out of guilt.”
“Partly. But what of it?”
He snorted. “I can’t judge you for that, not after today.”
She stepped closer, running her hands over the worktop’s pitted edge. “Can you tell me how it happened? Was your father…upset?”
“I imagine he was upset, hearing his son call him a racist.”
“Oh dear.”
“It’s true.”
“I know.”
“And Fergus is Catholic.”
“Oh.”
“And I really like him.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m to carry the banner in the Orange Walk.” John scraped the sliced carrots into a bowl. “So that’s fun.”
“You must be joking.” Mum rescued a stray carrot slice before it could roll onto the floor. “You told your father you would march?”
“No, I told him I wouldn’t. Then he had a heart attack, and I told him I would.”
“Oh John.”
“Don’t.” He rested his hands atop the head of cabbage. “Don’t ‘Oh-John’ me. I’m ‘Oh-John’ing enough for the both of us.”
“Dating a Catholic man while belonging to the Orange Order is a recipe for disaster. Why would you risk losing someone who’s already shown he’ll be there when you need him?”
“Dad needs me too. And Fergus won’t find out.” I hope. “He’s going to a music festival in Loch Lomond that day. And I told Dad I’d only do the Ibrox Lodge’s local parade, not the big citywide one that afternoon.” He couldn’t risk any of his uni mates seeing him downtown. “Then I’ll quit the Order forever. So it’s all sorted. One more march. Just one more march.”
John didn’t tell her how he’d nearly confessed to Fergus in the waiting room. In that moment, he’d felt the secret would burst open his chest. Now, with a cooler head, he knew what would’ve happened next—Fergus would have walked out and never spoken to him again, much less touched or kissed him.
“Even if Fergus never knows, you’ll always know.” Mum laid a gentle but firm hand on John’s arm. “If you do another Orange Walk, you’ll forever hate yourself.”
He looked down into her clear, dark eyes. “I already hate myself. So I’ve a good headstart on forever.”
Mum scowled, her lower lip jutting out. “Who gie ye aw this angst, ma wee lad? Ye were ne’er sae dour when ye were a wean.”
He smiled at her purposeful lapse into Lowland Scots, usually suppressed by her schoolteacher’s propriety. He replied in kind: “It’s no frae ma mither, by ma certies. She’s a blythe lassie aw the day and aw the nicht.”
“Better believe I am.” The kettle whistled, so she moved away to pour the water. “I’ll be glad to see Harry more often. He’s old enough now to appreciate being spoiled by his gran.” She chuckled. “Speaking of grans…” Mum held up the red-and-blue Rangers tea cosy her own mother had knitted years ago.
Then she covered her mouth as her smile widened. “Your Fergus,” she said with a titter, “is he a Celtic fan?”
John sighed and bent his head in mock mourning. “Aye.”
“Ah, well.” Mum picked up the kettle. “I suppose no one’s perfect.”
= = =
Fergus was in desperate need of a shower. But more than that, he needed answers.
Sitting cross-legged on his bed—where he’d replaced the Celtic blanket—he opened his laptop and typed in John’s address.
The mapping website put a red flag on a location about half a mile south of the River Clyde. John had said he lived in the Ibrox section of Glasgow—parts of which were quite fashionable—but this
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