“Uncle Sandy is big enough to fight his own battles.”
“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t stand up for him, especially as he does so much for me—and Archie. He taught me to ride my bike and a pony. He takes us on outings and holidays. He lets us ride our skateboards in the portrait gallery, he doesn’t tell us to be quiet when we want to speak, and he never looks at us like we’re a nuisance, like he wishes we were never born! He likes us, Holly. Likes us more than our father does.” As Hugh speaks, his bottom lip trembles, words spilling with such emotion. “So, if he had asked me to hit Griffin with the cricket bat, I would have. I would’ve hit him hard because Uncle Sandy is a good man and . . . and . . .” He drops the blanket and bat and makes as though to bolt past me when I catch his arm.
“Hugh, it’s okay.”
He ducks his head, unwilling to let me see the sudden spill of tears as I pull him against me and wrap my arms around his trembling shoulders.
“It’ll be okay. An afternoon digging weeds isn’t such a harsh punishment,” I murmur, smoothing my hand over his back.
“It’s not about the punishment,” he mutters between halting breaths. “Uncle Sandy asked us to keep an eye out for you, to make sure you were safe. And Griffin was behaving like my father, ignoring us when we told him to move. You told him to get off, too, and he didn’t listen, and w-we were supposed to be looking after you.” Through a tangle of words and worries, Hugh presses his tearful face to my chest, letting weeks of emotions tumble out.
Hugh’s sobs calm to little hiccups and those little hiccups to sniffles eventually. We drop the blanket to the path and cop a squat for an impromptu chat. He knows his parents are heading for a divorce, and that's a lot to process for a kid of eight years old. I tried to do what I could. I told him that his parents would always love him and his brother and that though things might be changing, that never would. I agreed Griffin was a bit of an asshole, which at least raised a smile. But other than that, I’m not sure he took much else onboard. Then once he’d dried his tears, he’d pretty much clammed up like a shell.
Men!
40
Holly
I send Hugh along ahead of me when my phone begins to ring with a call from Kennedy. Poor signal prevents the call from connecting, and after a half dozen variants of “Hello? Can you hear me? Dang phone,” and “I can’t hear you”, I hang up and send her a text.
What Scotland lacks in phone signal, it makes up in beauty. Everything okay?
Yep, just checking in, comes her immediate reply. I’ll try again later.
Yeah, like on the weekend when you next remember. Kennedy has a terrible memory.
You can call me, you know. The thing in your hand makes outgoing calls, too.
Also, comes her next response. Wilder says please send more shortbread.
I’d sent a tin of the Walkers shop-bought stuff, which isn’t nearly as yummy as the kind made in the castle kitchen. But I won’t tell her that because it would be cruel.
Tell rug rat roger that.
I’m just about to slide my phone into my pocket—and pick up my mountain of picnic stuff—when I notice a bank of clouds coming over the hills. In the shadow of silver and grey, the heather seems to take on an almost eerie appearance. Wild, but also kind of magical. This part of Scotland is certainly all those things and more. And talk about four seasons visiting in one day, I think, as I peel away hair suddenly glued to my cheek. Clouds and the wind picking up? Maybe we’re due for a storm.
I pull out my phone and snap a couple of images of the rolling clouds, the drama of the weather demanding not to be ignored. I shiver as the cool air whips across my bare legs and consider how there’s little wonder in the fact that whisky is so popular in these parts and how I could do with a wee nip right now to warm my bones. Swooping down to gather the picnic things, I start.
“Here, let me get that.”
“Oh!” Hand flat to my chest, I stand and meet the brilliant blue eyes of Alexander. “You gave me a fright. I didn’t see you there.” Although my words sound a little harsh, something inside me blooms. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t be held responsible for my body’s responses. My hands go to the back of my head instinctively. I must look a fright. My trucker’s cap is Lord knows where, lost in the ruckus of Griffin’s swollen testes, leaving my ponytail half falling out and as low as a founding father’s.