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CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
George crept into the living room, picking his way between the furniture, trying not to disturb Owen, huddled under bedding on the put-you-up by the fireplace.
‘Welcome home,’ Owen mumbled.
‘Oh, sorry. I thought you were asleep.’
‘No.’
‘What did you do tonight?’ George asked, hurriedly stripping to his underpants.
‘Read a bit. Helped your mum in the kitchen.’
‘That was good of you.’
Owen made an all-purpose Welsh sound.
‘You did a great job on the door.’ Shivering, George leapt onto the sofa and squirrelled beneath his duvet.
‘Thanks.’
‘No end to your skills, eh?’ he said, pulling the bedding up to his chin, teeth clattering at the chilliness.
‘Doubt it. How was the Midnight Mass?’ Owen shifted onto his back.
‘Great,’ George said and, confronted with Owen’s sceptical silence, he went on. ‘It was inspiring. The atmosphere, the singing, the sermon… all of it uplifting…’ he paused. Still silence from Owen, so he added, ‘I’m not kidding. I tell you; I almost feel healed.’
Owen chuckled, and George muttered, ‘Cynical bastard.’
Silence settled. Feeling at peace with the world, remembering the goodnight kiss with Millie out in the hallway before she went up to his room, and looking forward to Christmas Day, George began to drift off into sleep.
Owen said, ‘I didn’t know you were sick.’
George opened his eyes. ‘Well, I was,’ he said. ‘Sick and ashamed of my dad.’ He fell into a moment of reflection before adding, ‘And, Owen, my trip to church has made you laugh for the first time since you found your mum’s body. Tell me that’s not a miracle.’
Owen didn’t respond.
George shifted onto his side and stared across the room at Owen’s shadowy form, worried by the silence, concerned he’d gone too far. ‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘I’m surviving. Thanks. Your mum has been a great help.’
‘Has she–how?’
‘Tonight, we… we talked.’
‘Good. I told you, you needed to talk.’
‘Hmm,’ Owen grunted, then changed the subject. ‘You like Millie, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do. I told you, she’s special.’ George shuffled to sit up, surrounding himself with the duvet. ‘I know it’s crazy… I’m only twenty, and she’s only a month younger than me, but I think she’s the one.’
‘Young love,’ Owen said.
‘Don’t sneer.’
‘I’m not sneering. Believe me, George, I’m not. I think you’re lucky. I wish I could find a girl I could love.’
‘You’re serious?’
