by Ashe Barker
“How come you’re always so calm? Whatever comes your way, you just shrug and accept it?”
Me, calm? I think resilient might be a better description, or maybe just plain dim. I’m reminded of the beginning of a poem by Rudyard Kipling, ‘If you can keep your head while all around are losing theirs…’ I always thought the next line should have been ‘you haven’t properly understood the situation’, but I keep that to myself for now. Things will no doubt be clearer tomorrow, once Nick has spoken to the lovely Astrid. And anyway, I have another fundamental question to throw into the mix.
“What you said to Callum earlier, when he was rude to me…”
He cocks his head, his smile sexy and warm. Intimate. He knows what’s coming. I turn on my stool, facing him directly now.
“Did you mean it? All of it?”
He takes his time again. “I did.” His response lacks any hint of his earlier hesitancy. “I’m not sure when the penny dropped, but I think it might have been when I found you in your apartment, injured, and thought for one crazy moment that someone had hurt you. I was ready to commit a murder. I’ve had people piss me off before, many times. Subs mostly—and you know all about that. But this was different, a white hot blast of searing anger. It was gone in an instant, as soon as I realised you’d hurt yourself by accident. Then I just wanted to take care of you. Protect you. Bring you back here where you belong. And once I got you here, I didn’t want you to leave me again. So yes, my little Freya, in answer to your question, I do love you.”
I gaze at him, my happiness bubbling and surely ready to overflow. I wonder what a pool of joy would look like, spilling onto Nick’s bedroom carpet. Bright gold and yellow and vivid pink probably, with sparkling lights and fizzy bubbles. Like a liquid Christmas tree. I’m lost for words to describe how I feel, so I settle for something ridiculously mundane.
“And you did all that. You did take care of me. You’ve been brilliant. Did I thank you properly?”
Again that sexy smile, the smile he keeps just for me now. “I think you may have. But do please feel free to thank me again, just in case.”
All in good time. For now I content myself by walking across the room to him and laying my right palm briefly against his cheek.
“You know I love you too. You accept that from me now?”
“Christ, yes.” He takes my hand, the one not encased in plaster, and turns it to kiss my palm. “Freya, isn’t it time we were in bed and you got set to on this thanking you might have missed?”
Soon. I’m still thinking about our house guest in the spare room. Nick is in his mid-thirties now, I guess, and if Callum’s already seventeen then Nick can’t have been much older when he fathered him. I wonder about the mysterious Astrid. Maybe she was just a kid too back then. And her Charlotte—at least I now understand why both Nick and Callum were so certain he was not her type. But I am, and it’s time he was reminded of that. We all have a lot of talking to do, and tomorrow will be soon enough for the next volley of questions. For now I need to remind him that while he may not have been Astrid’s type, he’s most definitely mine. I want my Dom.
“You promised me a spanking. I hope fatherhood isn’t going to make you forgetful.”
I smile at him, my hands stilling again, then on impulse I settle myself next to him and wrap my arms around him, nuzzling his chest with my nose. I flick his nipple with my tongue, and love the delightful little shiver that ripples under his skin. It’s slightly awkward, I’m not completely at ease with my plaster cast yet, but I manage. Nick tangles his fingers in my hair, turning my face up to his and kisses me, deepening the kiss quickly as my mouth opens under his. Long, tongue-tangling moments later he lifts his head.
“You’re an insatiable little sub, but I think you’ll have to somehow manage to rein in your rampant sluttish tendencies with a child in the house.”
My scornful expression tells him what I think of that notion. For good measure I start signing again, “Hardly a child. He’s seventeen. If you want, tomorrow we can always get a lock for the door. And I’m not a screamer.”
He holds my gaze, his slate-grey eyes glinting. Then, his smile vivid and decidedly wicked, he relents, “That you definitely are not. Fair enough. Knickers off then and lay yourself across my lap. I think the spanking paddle this time, don’t you? You’ll find it in the drawer at the bottom of my wardrobe.”
I do. Definitely. So I slip from the bed to go to fetch it.
* * * *
The following morning, my bottom still tingling deliciously from Nick’s careful attentions, I’m first to get up. I wander into the kitchen, decently covered from neck to toes in a bathrobe of Nick’s, and put some coffee on before making myself a cup of tea. Then I peer hopefully into the newly stocked cupboards looking for breakfast. A growing lad and a stern Dom with a mean right hand need good food. This is one area I do understand. I decide on pancakes, and start assembling the ingredients.
I hear footsteps coming into the kitchen and glance over my shoulder. Callum is in the doorway, looking uncertain of his welcome. I raise my plastered hand in greeting then point to the coffee. He mumbles something, which I decide to assume is thanks, and goes over to the pot. Once there he looks around blankly for a mug so I indicate the cupboard above the sink. He selects one, Nick’s favourite I note. Like father like son. He manages to find the milk in the fridge unaided, and I’m pleased to see he puts the bottle back without needing to be reminded. He’s been trained, up to a point, it seems. Maybe Astrid’s done a decent job.
I reach for the small notepad we always keep in the kitchen, a legacy from my first days here and pressed back into service briefly when I first broke my wrist, though my scrawl was near enough illegible with my right hand. I’ve been practising and can now manage to scribble something more or less readable. Who knew I was ambidextrous? Every cloud, and all that.
Pancakes for breakfast? With treacle or honey? Or jam?
Or in my case lemon juice. I put the note in front of Callum. He reads it, then picks up the pen as if to write his answer. I stop him, my hand on his, and point to his mouth. He grins, embarrassed.
“Right, you can hear. Sorry…”
I smile and shake my head to let him know it’s fine. Then I point again at my note.
“Can I have treacle and jam?”
I nod and take my notepad back again.
Could you get the stuff from the cupboard then, please? And bring the honey too, Nick likes honey.
I remember from my first days with Margaret the importance of having something to do, something ordinary. She was forever finding me little errands to run, helping me to feel useful, to feel that I belonged in her house even though I was a stranger. Working on instinct I find myself doing the same with Callum now.
No more words are exchanged until we’re both sitting at the table, opposite each other, a pile of my best light and fluffy pancakes between us. Callum is armed with a knife, a generous supply of treacle and a jar of strawberry jam. I have a lemon, sliced in half. There’s no sign of Nick.
We munch in silence, and I wait. I want Callum to speak first.
“How long have you known…Nick?” One and a half pancakes later my patience has paid off.
Not ‘my dad’ yet then. I reach for my notepad and write.
Not that long. Maybe two months or so.
“But you live here? Like, you’re his wife or something?”
I nod. The ‘or something’ probably covers it.
“Does that mean you’re my stepmum?”
I grin at that. Not quite the self-image I had in mind. For one thing, I’m only four years older than he is. I point that out to him.
He seems genuinely surprised at that. “I thought you looked young, but I just assumed you must be older than you look. Nick’s what—thirty-five?”
I nod, rock my hand to suggest he is about that but I’m not quite certain.
Gaining in confidence now, Callum leans back in his chair, regards me mischie
vously, a smile crinkling his mouth. “Well, I’d suggest big sister. But that seems a bit off, seeing as you’re fucking my dad.”
I glance at him, somewhat shocked at the graphic image and the deliberate crudity. But I haven’t missed the ‘dad’ reference. And he does have a point. I reach once more for my notepad.
OK. Friends then. Will that do?
He looks at the note, then at me. And he smiles widely. “You know, you’re okay. Better than Charlie. Charlotte,” he clarifies at my puzzled expression. “She just fucking whinges all the time, winds my mum up.”
Time to set some ground rules I think. I start my scribbling again.
I won’t swear at you. And neither will Nick. Please be polite to me.
He reads the note, looks at me in what seems to be genuine bafflement. Now it’s my turn to clarify.
No f-ing and blinding while you’re eating my pancakes.
Now he gets it, and has the grace to look sheepish. The more I see of this lad, the more I think we’ll get on.
“I’m sorry. Really. It’s just a habit, comes out without me thinking. Like last night when I called you—” He breaks off, properly embarrassed now.
I smile at him, place my finger across my lips to signal him to stop talking, and gesture with my thumb over my shoulder to say that’s in the past. The crude attempt at signing gets the meaning across, though.
“Hey, that’s so cool. Will you teach me?”
I nod, I’d be happy to. Once my hand is out of plaster. For now, most of the tuition will probably have to come from Nick. Ever the opportunist, though, and since he’s already mentioned his mum and Charlotte, I decide to press the matter.
Tell me about your mum. Why did you leave Leicester? And how did you find your dad’s house?
It takes a few more prompts from me, and another batch of pancakes, but eventually I’m patching the story together. It seems Callum got excluded from school two years ago and never got as far as taking any exams. He left with no qualifications whatsoever to his name. He hasn’t worked since being slung out of school, and in any case seems to have no idea what he wants to do. Any mention of college or training is greeted by an emphatic head shake. And, probably the result of too much free time and nothing better to do, he’s been getting into bother with the Leicester police. It’s mainly been lower level antisocial behaviour, although I don’t suppose that’s much comfort to the victims. The elderly people who quiver behind their curtains when Callum and his tough guy mates swagger up and down their streets after dark would probably consider that there’s nothing remotely trivial about it. Nor would the folk who can’t go in the off-licence in the evenings because they’re terrified of the gang of twenty or more youths hanging around the entrance.
But now is not the time to point all that out, so I just encourage him to keep on talking. I learn that Charlotte seems to despise him, she’s ‘always kicking off’ and Astrid’s started laying down the law too. It seems there’s been a lot of screaming and shouting at home, and it boils down to either he drops his crazy mates and gets a job, or he can fuck off out of her house. At my raised eyebrow he puts up both his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“That’s exactly what she said. Honest.”
“Would that have been when you got your ASBO for scrawling racist graffiti on the primary school wall?”
Nick’s voice from the doorway startles both of us. I have no idea how long he’s been there, listening to Callum’s side of things, but from his comment and the phone in his hand it’s clear that he’s already spoken to Astrid.
Callum clams up instantly and makes to stand up. I reach for his hand, and signal him with my eyes to stay. He and Nick need to face each other soon—it may as well be now. Callum looks as though he might bolt at any second, but I risk letting go of his hand and go to get Nick some coffee. I deliberately set his cup on the table, indicating that he should join us. He does, and takes a long, appreciative sip of his morning caffeine.
“Morning, gorgeous. Any pancakes left?” His smile is for me, not for Callum.
I nod, and this time I’m the one making to leave the table. Nick stops me.
“Later. Coffee’s good for now.” He turns to fix his glare on Callum. “Your mum’s not exactly insisting I put you on the first bus back. Seems you’re not popular in Leicester.” He sips again. “Racist graffiti. Criminal damage. Drunk and disorderly. Shoplifting. Joyriding. You have been busy. No wonder she’s glad to see the back of you.”
Callum shifts in his chair, his expression sullen. But he doesn’t deny any of it, offers no excuses. I grab my notepad again.
Racist graffiti? What was that about?
He looks at the note, then at me, and shrugs. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t even believe that bollocks. Sorry, rubbish.”
And the rest?
More shrugging. “Things just sort of got out of hand. None of it was ever planned, it just sort of happened. Someone’d say, ‘Let’s nick a car’, and next thing you know, you’re in a stolen Cortina. An older model, they’re easy to get into and hotwire. I can’t do any other make.”
“And the stealing from shops?” This from Nick.
“When you’ve no money, no job, no chance of getting stuff any other way…”
I can tell from the disgusted snort that Nick’s not buying that excuse. “Are the police after you now? Is that why you ran?”
“No! No. I was up in court last week, got an ASBO and banned from the city centre. If I go into Leicester, or meet with my mates, I’ll get locked up.”
I can tell from Nick’s expression that he has some considerable sympathy with the court’s decision.
“So, I decided to get away. From Leicester and my mates. I wasn’t sure where to go, but I knew you lived somewhere up here and thought it was time I paid a visit. So, here I am.”
“So, how come you knew all about me, and I’d never even heard of you until last night?”
In fairness, that would be a question better directed at Astrid. Callum’s not the one to be answering it. He does have a go, though. “I’ve always known about you. Your name, at least. And my mum said that as far as she knows you still live in the north-west. So I Googled you, and found your parachute business. Do you really fly planes?”
“Yes, occasionally. Go on.”
“Right. So I phoned the airfield to ask where it was. Pretended I wanted to book a parachute lesson and I said I wanted you to teach me. The bloke said you didn’t work there anymore. I asked if you still did lessons, and he said he thought you might. He gave me your mobile number.”
“So why didn’t you phone me?”
“What, out of the blue? ‘Hello, Mr Hardisty. You don’t know me, but I’m your son?’”
Right. Makes sense. Nick seems to accept that too.
“So, how did you find out where I live?”
“I have a mate works for EE. I figured he might be able to trace the address for that number. So I paid him fifty quid, and he came up with this place. That was yesterday morning.”
“Astrid told me you nicked fifty quid from her purse before you left. Is that what it was for?”
“Yes. I’d hoped to have some left over for a train fare or something, but the greedy git wanted the lot.”
“I’m going to send Astrid her money back. That means you owe me fifty quid. Okay? And God knows what you’ve cost me so far in pancakes and ham sandwiches. Do you never stop eating?”
I smile. I know the worst is over. Sure enough, “You’ll need to rebuild your bridges with your mother, but let the dust settle first. She’s in no hurry to see you again. Other than that there doesn’t seem to be any pressing reason to cause the good people of Leicester any more grief. You can stay here, but on my terms.”
What else?
“No messing about, and no stupid mates. And no nicking anything, from me, from Freya, or anywhere else. You’ll need a job, some sort of training.” He lifts that imperious finger at Callum’s protest, and of course it works
. It always works. Callum subsides into grumpy acceptance of the inevitable.
“The world doesn’t owe you a living. You need to bloody well earn it like the rest of us. You can work for us until you find something else. A job, or college, I don’t mind. Unless you’ve a better idea?”
He doesn’t. “What sort of work will I be doing?”
I must admit, I’m wondering about that too.
“Well, Freya’s apartment needs cleaning apparently. Maybe you could start with that.” He glances at me for confirmation that this will be okay. I nod, though I’m not sure I can picture Callum in a pair of Marigolds. “And there’s gardening you could do here. And helping Freya—you can see she’s not her usual self, she might need things lifting, passing. I reckon we’ll manage to keep you busy. You’ll be glad of a college course come September, I daresay.”
I sneak a glance at Callum. The mutinous expression has become one more reminiscent of resignation. He’s met the immovable force that is Nick Hardisty, and I have a feeling he’ll be much better for it in the long run.
Callum regards his father calmly, and I detect a hint of relief in his attitude now. He came here looking for a fresh start, and maybe some boundaries, some structure. Some discipline. And it seems he may have found it. I should know.
“What do I call you? Dad? Or Nick? Or Mr Hardisty?”
“Definitely not Mr Hardisty. Either of the others is fine. You decide.” Nick turns to me. “So, my love. Pancakes?”
Chapter Seven
Things settle into a regular routine, and after a shaky start the three of us seem to be rubbing along quite well. I frequently find myself drawn in to act as mediator, tempering Nick’s frustrations with his new role as the father of a juvenile delinquent, whatever Callum might be telling us about being a reformed character. I suppose the truth of that remains to be seen, but whatever Nick’s initial misgivings, and I somehow doubt they’ve been dispelled to any great degree, I do sense that he loves his son.
