Page 43 of Forever, Maybe
Married couples were supposed to handle these moments together. But the same instinct that had stopped Nell from telling Danny two weeks ago when she first suspected she might be pregnant kicked in again now. Knowing for certain—one way or the other—would give her the chance to adjust, to think. To figure out how to convince Danny of the right course of action.
“That would be lovely. Thank you,” she said softly.
Stephanie clapped her hands. “Right, here goes! Hope you’ve got plenty of liquid sloshing around in your bladder. If no wee pink line comes up on that thing—and I bet it won’t, it’ll be the stress of working in this shithole that’s made you late—shall we go out for drinky-poos to celebrate?”
Chapter seventeen
April2016
Trish phoned Daniel just as he was leaving work late on Wednesday evening. “I was at a funeral today,” she announced. “With your Uncle Shane. He said he hasn’t seen you in ages. Don’t you think you should pop by?”
He got into his car with a sigh. “It’s almost nine o’clock. Won’t he be in bed?”
“Don’t be daft! Your uncle’s always kept late hours. Go and see him.”
Daniel sighed again, wondering if blindly obeying your mother’s commands at the age of forty-four was an oldest-child thing. Still, he sent a quick message to Nell, who replied immediately with a row of exclamation marks and a kiss. He took that as tacit approval and headed for Giffnock.
The Glasgow suburb had long been a favourite of the city’s wealthier residents. Shane owned his detached red-sandstone house outright—a rare luxury—having bought it in the early 1990s. The property boasted a sweeping driveway large enough to park five black SUVs, a sprawling garden, and a conservatory at the back overlooking lush, green fields.
These days, only one car—a clapped out Volvo estate—sat in the driveway. Daniel parked beside it and stepped out, taking a moment to study the house. It was a mock Tudor mansion, with half-timbered, white-plastered walls, dark wooden beams, a steeply pitched roof and ornate brick chimneys.
As a young man, he’d thought it was the height of grandeur. Shane had proudly given the family a tour back then, eagerly pointing out every room and marvelling at the mod cons, like the giant flat-screen TV that had seemed cutting-edge at the time. Now, the house looked tired. The white walls were a grubby grey, the lead-paned windows smeared, and the frames cracked and flaking.
He lifted the heavy iron knocker and let it bang against the door several times. Inside, he could hear Shane shuffling along the hallway, probably scowling at the fact that there was no longer a live-in housekeeper to handle such tasks.
When the door finally opened, his uncle peered out. Trish’s brother was only sixteen months her senior, though these days the difference seemed more like years. His salt-and-pepper hair was still full, but his face told a different story—deep lines carved into his skin, folding it into creases that could have stretched across his face five times over. His shoulders were hunched, and he moved with the sluggish stoop of someone who’d long ago stopped caring about posture.
“Danny bhoy! ‘Mon in. Fancy a whisky?”
And just like that, the myth crumbled—the one that claimed Nell was the only person allowed to call him Danny. Not true. Uncle Shane, bearer of the harp tattoo on his ankle and the IRA phoenix on his left arm, had always called him Danny bhoy.
Daniel shrugged, lifting one shoulder in a way that could mean yes or no, depending on interpretation.
The inside of the house mirrored the neglect of its exterior. The laminate flooring clung stickily to his shoes, and the wallpaper was a relic from another era. A dado rail split the living room walls in two: above, thick green and white stripes; below, dark wooden panels. Two Parker Knoll recliners, upholstered in once-plush velvet, faced the giant TV Daniel had idolised in his youth. The screen was paused on a horse mid-jump, soaring over an obstacle that looked like a death trap.
A glass-fronted cabinet brimming with crystal glasses and brass trinkets tried—and failed—to lend the room some dignity. The rest was a mishmash of worn-out relics and cheap substitutions: a faded carpet with an indistinct pattern, an IKEA coffee table ringed with wine glass stains and photo collage frames on the wall, the wordfamilycarved in chunky letters along the bottom.
“Take a pew,” Shane said, gesturing to one of the recliners.
Daniel sat, the chair releasing a soft, defeatedphfffffftas it absorbed his weight.
“I’ll get you a whisky,” Shane announced, shuffling toward the built-in bar at the back of the room.
Before he got far, Daniel stood again, and the chair emitted another protesting fart.
“Sit down, Shane. I’ll do it,” Daniel said.
The whisky was easy enough to find. Two half-full bottles sat on the bar counter, their labels worn and sticky with residue. Blended, not single malt, as they might have been in better years. Daniel poured Shane a generous double and opted for tonic water for himself, filling his glass from a Schweppes bottle on the side. Both drinks were topped with ice from the small fridge tucked beneath the bar counter.
“How’s that wee lassie o’ yours?” Shane asked as Daniel rejoined him, settling back into the recliner. He gestured toward a framed portrait on the wall.
Nell didn’t usually paint portraits, but after Brenda—Shane’s wife—had passed three years ago, she’d made an exception. The painting, a warm and lifelike tribute, had held pride of place ever since.
“She’s fine,” Daniel replied, keeping it brief. Shane wasn’t looking for an in-depth update. As always, he wanted to talk about the past—the so-called glory days.
When Brenda went into Glasgow, with store owners bending over backwards to cater to her, paid for or not. The young men who had lined up to work for Shane, eager to prove themselves. Tickets to football matches, gigs and film premieres that came to him effortlessly, as if by divine right.
But those days were long gone. The global financial crash had gutted his empire. The nightclub-goers who had once thronged his venues vanished as mortgages defaulted and discretionary spending evaporated.
