‘The veil?’
‘Yeah.’
Carla smoothed out her black dress. ‘Yes, I need to wear it. I know I’m not going to hold it together for long and I’d rather not give my speech looking like Alice Cooper.’
‘It’s a funeral, mum. You’re allowed to cry, whatever Aunt Kelly says about keeping your chin up.’ He stuck his fists in the pockets of his smartest school uniform trousers and muttered something that sounded like ‘bossy bitch.’
Carla took a deep breath, turned, and strode over to Patrick. He took a nervous step back, which horrified her, but as she held her arms out, he darted into her embrace, squeezing tightly. It only took a light stroke at the back of his neck to unlock the hatches. He sobbed into her neck without reservation and without self-consciousness, letting it all out.
‘I just really m-miss him.’
‘I know, sweetheart.’ Carla held on, not rushing him, not telling him to pull himself together before the car arrived. Kelly appeared in the doorway, tapping her watch, and Carla flicked her hand impatiently, flapping her away like she was a wasp. Kelly retreated, looking both pissed off and stunned.
Carla only let go of her son once he seemed to be coming to a natural halt. She kept her hands on his shoulders, stroking them with her thumbs. He would be a big lad, one day. Possibly not as big as James—Paddy’s build was slender—but she could imagine him shooting up faster than she could buy him new clothes. She straightened out the red piping on the collar of his school blazer.
‘It’s you and me, now. We need to stick together. Okay?’
‘Hmm-mmm.’ Paddy wiped his face dry with the back of his hand.
‘Let’s fight less and talk more.’
‘kay.’
‘Nothing’s going to come between us, you know.’ She kissed his forehead. ‘And I promise I won’t let Aunt Kelly boss me around anymore.’
He gave her a flicker of a wry smile. ‘Did you cry too?’
She lifted her veil.
‘You can keep the veil on, mum.’
‘Gee, thanks.’ She chuckled in spite of herself, glad to see a little flash of James’ black humour emerging in their son. She dabbed her eyes, making herself look respectable again, and followed Paddy down the stairs. It took a few moments to give final instructions to the nurse who would babysit Johnny, and then a rap at the front door told her that it was time to leave.
Roger Morgan, in full best blues, held an umbrella while escorting her to the funeral limousine, despite leaning heavily on a cane. He held the door open for Patrick and Kelly to enter, and then climbed in himself, wincing.
She grimaced, concerned. He’d only been out of hospital a couple of days. ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’
‘Yep… just stiff.’
She watched anxiously as Roger rested back in his seat, stifling a groan but not doing a good job of it.
He shot her a brave smile. ‘Are you sure it’s okay for me to ride with you?’
She fixed Roger with the steadiest smile she could manage. ‘Of course. You were James’ friend. I’ll never forget what you tried to do for him—or for Trev. Jim would want you here at my side as he’s laid to rest.’
A tide of relief seemed to sweep through Roger’s face. ‘I’m really glad you feel that way.’ He swallowed. ‘Look, I’ve got my discharge meeting next week, and then… well. I’ll be around whenever you need me.’
She nodded in gratitude and peered through the window and the drizzle at the married quarters estate. She’d be moving out of here soon, no longer being a Royal Marine wife.
It was good to have a trustworthy friend on the ‘outside.’
***
Morgan hung back during the funeral service, keeping a respectful distance from Carla and Paddy, and a safe distance from Kelly. Only during the wake did he edge his way into their little group, intervening just in time to prevent Kelly from getting on Paddy’s case about his wonky tie.
‘Cut him some slack today, eh?’ he murmured. ‘I don’t think Jim would’ve given two hoots if Patrick had turned up with mud on his uniform.’
‘You’re welcome to your opinion.’ Kelly gave him a flinty smile and snatched a glass of Prosecco from the bar. ‘You’re also welcome to keep it to yourself.’
Morgan met Paddy’s gaze, hoping for a joint shrug, or a smile, or anything that indicated that Paddy appreciated the back-up. The kid had the same penetrating gaze as his father: expression neutral, but with eyes actively searching for signs of wrong-doing. Morgan caught his breath, suddenly back in the fox hole with blood oozing between his fingers, trying to persuade his old mate to cover for him with the brass. In his sleep, Jim’s unrelenting stare still bored through him. He watched Paddy turn and head straight over to Irvine’s kid, Mike, who’d curled up in a ball behind one of the curtains, trying not to cry but failing miserably.
Morgan turned back to the bar and bought himself a pint. Not having drunk a drop since that day in the fox hole, it hit him quickly. He drained it and bought another, which he sipped more slowly. Across the room, Paddy had coaxed Irvine Jr to his feet and was leading him outside for fresh air.
So, that’s how it’s going to be—history repeating itself.
‘Are you alright?’ Carla asked suddenly, appearing at Morgan’s left side. ‘You look a little peaky.’
‘I should be asking you that, love.’ Morgan smiled and stared into his pint rather than at her modest swell of cleavage. He cleared his throat. ‘I was just wondering… do you have anyone lined up to help you move? I’ll be able to drive next week. I can hire a van, get some lads to load up your stuff. Save you a bit of money on a removal firm.’
Carla’s eyes brimmed and she put her hand on his arm, squeezing lightly. ‘That would be so helpful. Thank you.’
Morgan nearly suggested dinner afterwards, but stopped himself just in time. He’d have to take this slowly: at least pretend to give Jim Regan the ‘respect’ he deserved. He glanced over to the window; Paddy and Mike were still outside, chatting in the rain. Paddy glanced inwards, catching Morgan’s eye. Morgan smiled, raising his pint in acknowledgement. He got another flat stare for his efforts before the kid led his mate away to a different rainy hidey-hole.
Fuck him, then.
‘I’m sorry about Paddy,’ Carla murmured. ‘He’s taking this hard.’
‘Ah, it’s fine. He’s bound to be a bit possessive of you for a while—call it automatic man-of-the-house instinct.’
‘You’re a good man.’ Carla reached up and pecked him on the cheek. ‘I need to mingle. Are you sticking around?’
Morgan loved the expression of hope in her eyes. ‘Here till you tell me to go.’
‘Good. I won’t be long.’
He had to suppress his grin as she moved among the others at the wake, graceful and gorgeous even in her grief. So, she wanted him to stick around. He could be patient; he’d waited fifteen years for her already, after all—what was another couple? He finished his pint and ordered a third, deciding to finish with this one. He needed to make a good impression, after all, though he reckoned Paddy was already a lost cause.
Still, if that kid thought he’d rule the roost, he had another thing coming.
Morgan’s days of having his every move watched over by a Regan were done.
THE END
Desert OverWatch Page 6
