The Harder They Fall (35 page)

Sean was hurt by this and he didn’t try to hide it. He’d hoped that explaining what their professor had put him through would clear the air, but there was still more, so he sat, and he waited. Josh picked up the beer mat again and peeled it in half.

“And you lied to me.”

“Of course I lied to you! What choice did I have?”

“You had the choice to tell me the truth. I was going to find out you were leaving eventually.”

“I took the coward’s way out. Would you have done any differently in my situation?” Josh didn’t reply. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.”

“I don’t know what I would have done, but I hope it would have been the right thing.”

“That’s the trouble though, isn’t it? It’s not always easy to know what the right thing is, but I assure you that I believed I did know back then, regardless of all those months of…” Sean trailed off and picked up his pint, swallowing half of it in one go. “But perhaps you’re right. I should’ve told you I was planning to go to Bristol, instead of you finding out by accident, and for that I’m sorry. So very, very sorry. For you and for me. For us.”

“How many have you had today?” Josh asked. The route the conversation was taking was the one it usually meandered when Sean was drunk.

“The two pints since we’ve been here. This isn’t the drunkard speaking. This is the friend, who…” Sean’s voice broke and he was unable to go any further.

“I’m sorry too,” Josh said, reaching out to him. “I know you did what you thought was right.” Sean’s eyes lit with gratitude and Josh allowed the feeling to rest there for a moment, then raised his eyebrow. “Even if your academic choices still suck, big time.”

Sean nodded. “All right, so. Up with the shields again, is it, Sandison?” He was still struggling, but managed a watery smile. Josh picked up his orange juice and held it up in front of him. Sean did likewise with the little that remained of his pint.

“Sláinte!” Josh clanged his glass against Sean’s. It was back to business as usual.

That glorious feeling of lying in bed on a Saturday morning, the curtains gently glowing with the low September sun, in that perfect position, where duvet and pillows unite to create the most comfortable, snuggly cocoon, a not-so-distant rumbling, a rapid crescendo of bangs, and a tremendous thud. Eleanor sat bolt upright and listened for more.

“Bollocks!”

Her dad’s voice, just the other side of the bedroom door. Cautiously, she crept across the carpet, inhaling the scent of coffee, tea, porridge, toast: the breakfasts of the Davenports gathered en masse. She opened the door and looked down.

“What you doing down there?”

“Lost my bloody footing, didn’t I,” her dad explained, pointing at the ladder positioned a few feet away and poking up into the loft.

“What were you doing up there?”

“Putting your mother’s mannequin away.” He tried to pull himself up off the floor, but his left leg wouldn’t take the weight. “Give me a hand, love,” he said. Eleanor reached down and he grabbed her arm, slowly drawing up until he was standing on his right leg. He put his left foot down, then quickly lifted it again.

“What’s taking you so long?” Eleanor’s mother shouted up the stairs.

“Dad’s fallen off the ladder,” Eleanor shouted back. There was the thump-thump of feet landing, heavy and surly, on each stair, louder, closer. They looked to each other in terror.

“What the hell did you do that for?” her mother screeched as she arrived on the landing.

“You say that like I did it on purpose,” her dad protested.

“I know you didn’t do it on bloody purpose, you fool!” She flung her arms in exasperation. “Today, of all days. Have you broken it?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, trying his ankle for weight-bearing again, with the same effect.

“Come and sit in here a minute,” Eleanor suggested, supporting him into the room and to the bed she had just vacated. He eased himself into a sitting position and she knelt down beside him. Trying to roll down his sock made him shrink back in pain and his ankle was swelling rapidly.

“What’s the verdict, doc?” he asked.

“You need an x-ray. It’s probably only tissue damage, but to be on the safe side…”

“Oh, just bloody terrific, that is,” her mother cut her off. “And who’s going to take you to hospital, do you think?”

“Would you stop going on like I did it on purpose?”

“I’m not!”

“I’ll take you, Dad,” Eleanor said. “I’ll get dressed while the lads…”

“You can’t do that!” her parents exclaimed in unison.

“Why not?”

“It’s your wedding day.”

“Mother. I’m not getting married until two o’clock and you’re all ‘up to your eyes’. It makes sense, you know it does.” She left the room and stood at the top of the stairs. “Luke, Pete, come and carry Dad out to the car.”

Her parents looked at each other. Her dad shrugged and her mum threw her hands in the air.

“I give up,” she said, and stormed off back downstairs. Luke and Peter arrived a moment later, and seat-lifted their father down the stairs, then supported him as he painfully hopped his way to the car. Eleanor was ready a couple of minutes after.

“Right, here’s what we’re going to do,” she heard her mother begin as she closed the front door. A change of battle strategy was underway.

Eleven hundred hours, local time: the flight from Istanbul was on schedule. Dan and Andy boarded the plane and took their seats. If all went as it should, they’d be back in the UK by 14:00 and home by six.

It’s amazing how much difference a few words can make, and Eleanor felt a bit guilty about it, but “I’m a GP, my dad’s hurt his ankle and I’m getting married today” saw them immediately jump to the front of the queue, x-ray done within ten minutes, back to A&E to be told “tissue damage, as expected, Doctor Davenport”, then back in the car and home again. The tea was barely cold in the pot. The rest of the troops had been taking a well-earned rest while they awaited news, and immediately shot up from their chairs or other positions around and about the kitchen.

“At ease, men,” her dad joked, as he hobbled in on his standard issue NHS crutches, gratefully accepting the chair Tilly offered.

“Shaunna and Adele are here,” she told Eleanor, nodding towards the lounge. They had to come to do hair, nails and make-up, and Eleanor went off to greet them.

“Hi,” she beamed hugging first Adele, then Shaunna.

“Hi, Ellie. Are you excited?”

“I am, actually. How are you both?”

“We’re excited too!” Adele clapped her hands and bounced up and down.

“Yeah,” Shaunna agreed, “especially Adele!” Eleanor laughed.

“Don’t suppose you’ve seen my mother?”

“She’s having a shower, so I can make a start on her hair,” Shaunna told her.

“Ah, right. Saves me having to break the news for a bit, then.”

“Is your dad OK?”

“He’s fine. Just a sprain. Unfortunately, he’s now on crutches. Mum’s going to have a fit.” She was becoming aware of increasingly loud voices coming from the kitchen. “Excuse me one moment, ladies,” she said, and went to investigate.

“It makes sense, Dad, you know it does,” Ben was saying.

“But why you? You did it last time,” Luke argued.

“Because I’m the eldest.”

“So? I’m not a teenager anymore.”

“But I’m still the eldest.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Eleanor’s dad said.

“What’s this all about?” Eleanor interrupted, having already figured it out, but she wanted to hear the full explanation before commenting.

“Clearly Dad can’t walk you down the aisle,” Ben reasoned.

“It’s only a short one,” Tilly said, having spent enough time at the chapel the day before to estimate to the nearest inch the length of the walk from the doors to the altar. Ben ignored her.

“So I was saying it makes sense to let me do it.”

“Except you did it the last time,” Luke repeated. Off they went again, around the same argument, with Eleanor trying to interject and failing, due to the shouting. Suddenly there was an ear-piercing whistle, and they all stopped mid-sentence with their mouths still hanging in the shape of whatever word they had paused on.

“There ya go, sis,” Charlotte grinned, wiping her fingers on her t-shirt.

“Thank you! Right, now this is how it’s going to be. Dad: you are still giving me away. Ben: I’m not being funny, but as Luke says, you did it the last time, and, well, let’s just say it didn’t have a wholly satisfactory outcome.” Luke grinned smugly at his older brother. “And you can stop smirking, as well,” Eleanor scolded.

“But Dad’s never gonna get down that aisle,” Ben started again. Eleanor held up her hand.

“No. You’re quite right. He’s not.” She took out her phone, pressed the screen a couple of times and started to walk away. “Josh, I’ve got a massive favour to ask you…”

As she disappeared back into the living room, the brothers glared at each other, as if to blame each other for losing out on the chance to give their eldest sister away.

Oliver came hurtling down the slide, straight off the end, then up the stairs again, and down and around, and around, George watching with one eye tightly shut. As if this wasn’t dangerous enough, he’d already had to confiscate a tiny handful of colourful and very sharp drawing pins—God knows where he’d got those from—not to mention having re-tied Oliver’s shoelaces no less than three times since they arrived at the park, the last occurring after he went flying face-first towards the floor, George’s arm skilfully intercepting before contact. But it was all for a good cause: James was at the barber’s and it was a perfect opportunity for burning off some of the little boy’s over-abundant energy and excitement. However, Josh was now equally excited and re-organising his plans for the next couple of hours, to make sure he got to the chapel in plenty of time.

“Do you think I’d be better wearing the silver tie instead of the grey one? It’s a bit more flash,” he was saying.

“Wear whichever one you like the best,” George suggested wearily. He’d already answered this question twice.

“I wish I’d been to get my hair trimmed. I was going to do it on Thursday, but with our discussion and everything, I completely forgot. Are you sure it isn’t too long? I mean, I could probably go and get a last minute appointment…”

“Joshua! Stop fretting! Your hair looks perfectly fine. Wear the silver tie. I will clean your shoes and re-iron your shirt.”

“OK. Which means all I have to do…”

“Is go home and have a bath,” George finished, shaking his head and smiling.

“Yeah,” Josh said absently, pushing his fringe out of his face. It promptly flopped back in front of his eyes. “I still wish…” He sighed and went for a retry, at the same time as George reached out.

“Your hair is fine,” he assured him, brushing a thumb gently against his cheek. “Please stop worrying.”

Josh sighed again and nodded. George was right. He needed to calm down a bit, or he’d end up having a panic attack.

“Push please, Dorge,” Oliver called, having already positioned himself on the swing, his trousers all scrunched up around his knees from shoving his legs through the holes in the seat.

“All right, Ollie. Another five minutes and then we’ve got to go and get ready for Daddy and Eleanor’s wedding.” George rubbed Josh’s arm. “Better now?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Hey, I’d be just the same! Can you manage another five minutes? If not, go, and I’ll see you back at home.”

“No, no. I’ll wait.” He watched as George went over to the swing and retrieved an object from the floor beneath the seat.

“What did I say, Ollie?” he asked sternly.

“I sorry, Dorge,” Oliver replied, his lip quivering. The last thing they needed now was a tantrum.

“No more playing with drawing pins, do you understand? They’re very dangerous.”

Oliver nodded. George put the small box in his pocket and grabbed the chains of the swing.

“Ready, steady…”

“Go!” Oliver finished, giggling with excitement as the swing went higher and higher. Josh watched on, thinking what an incredible parent George would make, with his endless patience and kindness. He was firm, yet fair, and Oliver utterly adored him, even joining in with the countdown to the end of playtime. It was a cunning move, which meant there was no protest whatsoever when it was finally time to go. George lifted him down from the swing and held out his hand. Oliver took it and looked up at him sincerely.

“Are you coming, Dorge?”

“To Daddy’s wedding?”

“Yes, silly Billy.”

“Of course I am.”

“Is Josh coming?”

“Yes. He’s coming too.” George glanced across to Josh, who appeared equally bemused by the question.

Oliver turned George’s hand over and examined his bare fingers. “Where is your wedding ring?” he asked.

“I don’t have one.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not married.”

Oliver looked up at Josh and shook his head.

“You not propose to Dorge?”

“Err, no, Ollie.”

“Why?”

Josh didn’t know how to answer, and George came to the rescue once again. He picked Oliver up and swung him onto his shoulders.

“Why, why, why, Oliver Brown. Why are you all the way up there?” he said, tickling the little boy on the back of the knees. He giggled and kicked his feet. “Why are you kicking me. Ugh, huh,” George pretended to cry.

“Poor Dorge,” Oliver said, doing it all the more.

“Ouch!”

“Thanks,” Josh muttered.

“No problem,” George said, with a wink. “But don’t think you’ve got away with it that easily.”

As the jet lined up for its final approach to the runway, so too were Eleanor and Josh standing just the other side of the double doors, the aisle stretched before them, the muted tinkle of a harp coming through the speakers.

“Are you ready?” Josh asked. Eleanor was fluffing out her skirt and generally checking herself. It was nerves, and he was feeling them also, but he couldn’t show it. She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with held-back tears.

“I hope so,” she said, and looped her arm through his.

“You are so beautiful,” he told her. She smiled and squeezed his arm, then the ushers opened the doors and she focused on the vision of James, waiting for her just a few feet away. She felt her stomach turn over, and tried to cast the thought from her mind. Josh sensed it and placed his hand on her arm.