Page 57 of Her Last Walk Home

‘No I don’t.’

‘What do you mean?’ He almost dropped the hot plate as he slid it out of the oven with bare hands. She’d moved the oven gloves from their usual place in the pot cupboard. God only knew where he’d find them.

‘I’m getting married. I’ve moved in with him.’

‘Him?’ Boyd placed the plate on the breakfast bar and waited while his sister fussed with a table mat to protect the surface.

‘Bryan.’ She spelled it out.

‘What?’ Totally confused now, he raised his arms in a plea.

‘With a Y not an I.’

‘Oh. And who is Bryan when he’s at home?’

‘At home where?’

‘It’s an expression.’

‘Why do people talk in riddles?’

Boyd wanted to know so much about his sister’s life. ‘Where did you meet this… Bryan with a Y?’

‘No need to be smart.’

‘Sorry.’

‘We met online.’

‘How? You don’t know how to do technical stuff.’

‘There is nothing technical about signing up to a dating site.’

Sergio giggled in the living room, which was only separated from the kitchen by the breakfast bar. ‘You are a dinosaur, Papa.’

‘Apparently so.’ He opened the cutlery drawer again, still muddled with the rearrangement. He found a fork. It’d have to do. Pulling up a stool, he began to eat. ‘Tell me more.’

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full.’

‘Sorry. I want to know about this man you’re going to marry.’

‘It won’t be a traditional wedding. I’m not into wearing white and carrying an oversized posy. Wildflowers for me. I’m going to pick them from the cliffs.’

‘When is it?’

‘The flower-picking?’ She smiled and brushed flyaway hair behind her ears.

‘Now who’s taking the piss?’

‘Language.’ Grace never swore.

‘Go on, tell me all. By the way, this is delicious.’

‘Thank you.’ She sat on a stool opposite him, apparently pleased with the praise. ‘Bryan is sixty-four.’ She must have noticed his incredulous expression. ‘No need to worry about the age difference. We get on well together. I’m helping him on his farm.’

He gulped down a mouthful of stew, hoping he wouldn’t say the wrong thing. ‘Where is the farm?’

‘Five miles from Mam’s house, may she rest in peace. He has seventy acres. Enough sheep and their wool to make ten mats.’

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