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“I thought he was staying with Kayla and Theo.”
“They’ve not got the room anymore,” explains Les, “what with Anthea growing up.”
It takes Jonathan a bit longer to reply this time than it did earlier. “No problem,” he says. And this time he’s a touch less convincing. “I’m sure I’ve got room for Johnny as well.”
“Thanks, son.” I might be imagining it, but I swear I hear surprise in Les’s voice.
And it’s not until they’ve gone—with Wendy yelling down the phone that they’ll be along later—that I have a thought.
“You know,” I say, “I could go have a look if you want.”
“A look at what?” Jonathan’s already gone back to the chicken, although he’s now trying to rub it with butter that’s not been left long enough out the fridge so he’s just kind of stabbing it with little yellow rocks.
“The pipe.”
I can almost hear the filing cabinets in Jonathan’s head riffling back to Becker, comma, S from years back. “Oh yes, you were a plumber weren’t you?”
“I’ve got none of the kit, mind,” I tell him, realising that I should probably manage expectations, and hoping that admitting I remember the plumbing part of my background won’t make the whole rest of the amnesia story collapse like a house of cards with a burst water main. “And if they need a new pipe, I’ve been out the business long enough that I don’t know any suppliers. But I could at least check the damage, make sure they don’t get ripped off like by whoever finally does sort it out.”
He gives me a look I don’t recognise, but I think is gratitude. “That’d be kind of you.”
“No trouble,” I tell him. And it’s not. Though I try not to think too hard about the tangled-up mess of motivations clogging up the back of my head like hair in a drainpipe. Because while I want to be doing this to be nice, or because the Forests and their family have been nice to me, I’m also doing it because I feel guilty. I feel guilty as fuck. For a whole bunch things. Besides, I’m supposed to be making myself look useful so Jonathan’ll remember I’m worth keeping around. At work like, for the sake of my team.
And also maybe just…generally.
“Now”—Jonathan’s gazing down at the chicken with anexpression that’s one part curiosity and one part pity—“what am I doing wrong this time?”
The chicken comes out all right in the end—not great, but not completely terrible. The veggies have caught a bit on top and the potatoes are a touch dry, but for Jonathan’s first attempt at a mostly unaided roast following a recipe designed for six-year-olds, it could be a lot worse.
We sit at the kitchen table munching through it, and since I’m facing the windows I notice a shimmer of silver on the grass outside.
“That’ll be why the pipe’s burst,” I say. “It’s probably iced up.”
Jonathan looks up from his peas. “Pardon?”
“Grass is frosting over,” I tell him. “Which means it’s below zero, and probably has been for a while. And if your parents’ house is old, which I suspect it is because most houses round here are, then there’ll be places where the insulation isn’t so good and the pipes freeze. Then the water expands and they split.”
“Maybe.” Jonathan’s turning around now to look at the garden. “Or maybe Uncle Johnny tried to flush something down the toilet he shouldn’t have.”
This is more like the old Jonathan, but that’s okay because I don’t think I want the old Jonathan to go away entirely. “Did you just imply that your uncle’s a drug mule?”
“When I was thirteen, he broke my mum’s favourite vase, and tried to flushthatdown the toilet to hide the evidence, so he does have form.”
“Are you telling me a grown man tried to flush shards of ceramic down the bog?”
“What Johnny lacks in common sense he makes up in audacity.” There’s a hint of affection in Jonathan’s voice. A faint hint. Ahint so faint that if you served it in a cake onBake Offthe judges would say, “I’m sorry, it’s just not coming through.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, “we’ll hide the good china before he gets here.”
Then I go back to my dinner, but Jonathan’s still staring out of the window which means his chicken’s going cold, and that’s not doing his cooking any favours.
“It’s only frost,” I point out. “It happens every winter.”
“I know, I just”—I never thought Jonathan Forest could sound dreamy and he doesn’t really but it’s close—“I like this time of year. When your breath mists in the air. When I was very young I’d pretend to be a dragon.”
I give him what I hope is an encouraging look. “You still can.”
“I’m not six years old, Sam.”
