And I got it, I did, it must have been bloody torture to be away from his beloved gardens for so long. But if he didn’t do the recovery, he wasn’t going back to work for months. Just because he felt fine, it didn’t mean he was ready to be back weeding or planting or pushing heavy wheelbarrows round while chatting to his roses and teaching the new under-gardeners about the proper way to do things. Which wasalwayshis way.
It was an exercise in patience, and I wondered if this was the universe’s way of giving me a taste of what my dad’d had to dealwith when I was a teenager and desperate to be anywhere but here.
“Oh? Any reason?” I asked as I stirred my coffee and took a sip as I leant against the kitchen counter. It was my second of the morning, but not nearly as nice as Wendy’s.
“Roses should still be in bloom. And the lavender. And it’d be nice to see everyone.”
I hummed. I wasn’t falling for his tricks, because I knew these plays too well. After all, I’d learnt them from someone. “Just to see everyone?”
“Aye,” Dad said, not meeting my eyes as he picked up his enormous mug of tea. His hands were tanned and weathered from all the years spent outside, the dirt under his nails practically ingrained there. “Honestly, boy, it’s like you expect me to go skydiving or something. I’m just going for a wander, nowt wrong with that.”
“A wander would be awesome, just remember your stick, take plenty of breaks, and don’t get involved with any gardening. And that includes giving the roses a casual once-over.”
“I can look, can’t I? That only involves me eyes.”
“Aye, you can look, but I know you. You’re not just going to look.”
He glanced up at me from his seat at the worn kitchen table and smiled, his eyes crinkling and dancing with mischief. “I might.”
“You won’t,” I said, raising my eyebrows and trying not to grin. It was like arguing with myself in thirty years.
“Yer a right pain, y’know?”
“Takes one to know one,” I said, holding out my mug and raising it in cheers. Dad laughed and shook his head before picking up his toast.
“I should’ve moved in with your brother, he wouldn’t have noticed.”
“That’s because he’s got two kids under three. And he would’ve noticed, then come to drag you out by the ear. Who’d you’d rather deal with?”
“You, but only just,” he said. “Yer brother’s too responsible now. I’d get a right bollocking.”
“You’ll get one from me too if you’re not careful.” I put my coffee down and began to make myself some breakfast, grabbing a bowl out of the cupboard in front of me for some homemade granola, and a few bags of various dried fruits, and chocolate chips, to add to it.
I’d gotten the granola recipe from a guy I’d met in California several years ago, when I’d stopped there for a few weeks between destinations to surf and hike and explore. It’d been a fun diversion, and I’d seen some beautiful sights, and it was on my long list of places to go back to one day.
Along with half the rest of the world.
There were so many things out there I wanted to see, and never enough time to get to them.
Just thinking about it was making my fingers itch and my soul restless, the desire to go somewhere, anywhere, pulling at something deep inside me. I hadn’t planned where I might go after my dad was fully recovered and I was relieved of my care duties, because it would only make my fidgetiness worse.
On the other hand, would it be bad of me to make a list of places I fancied? Do a cheeky little bit of research on visas and jobs and what I’d need to do to get there. It wouldn’t do any harm.
“How’s that boss of yours doing?” Dad asked as he picked up his other piece of toast. “Saw an advert for the shop in here.” He gestured at the local magazine resting on the table alongside a stack of gardening titles, because he seemed to subscribe to all of them. “Didn’t think you needed any more business.”
“I think they placed the ad ages ago,” I said, adding alternating handfuls of dried banana and chocolate chips to my bowl. Because you could never have too much of either. “It’s probably aimed at tourists. Like people who stay in holiday cottages.”
Dad hummed and nodded. “Aye, that makes sense. There’s enough of them.” He looked at me shrewdly. “You’re still worried about him, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” I walked over to the fridge to grab some Greek yoghurt, trying to put my thoughts into words. “I know this is, like, his dream but I’m worried he’s taking on too much, y’know? He’s so bloody stressed all the time, and I don’t think he knows how to switch off.”
“The running not helping then?”
“I don’t know, maybe?” I’d told Dad about bumping into Darcy by the beach and his aims to reduce his stress, because I’d wanted a sounding board to make sure I wasn’t being too interfering. Most of the time, I was a pretty relaxed guy who tended to let people be unless they wanted my input, but there was something about Darcy that niggled at the back of my mind because I wasn’t convinced he’d ask for help until it was too late.
It was kind of ironic too, considering they’d all been on at Alfie for working too much, not sharing that he was struggling, and nearly breaking up with his boyfriend—who was the sweetest, quietest guy, and who had to have a constitution of steel considering he was still wearing black suits in the middle of summer.
I had to assume Darcy thought he was different. Like that “do as I say, not as I do” kind of friend. The one who’d be there for you through everything but chose to actively ignore their own problems. Although, since he’d taken up running, I kind of had to assume he was vaguely self-aware.
