“Have you tried any British Queens?” asked Da, with no hint of irony.
I sipped a glass of bitter wine. “I’m sure I probably have.”
His knuckles were swollen red as he struggled with the scraper. I offered to peel the potatoes for him. I weighed their cool heaviness in the palm of my hand, their thin skin speckled with the memory of peaty Irish earth.
“That one’s a bit bad.” Da said with disappointment as he supervised my work. Under the creamy shaved skin, a bruise had surfaced. “Throw it out.”
Later, as we ate, potatoes were discussed and rated. King Edwards. Maris Piper. Anything but Ma’s empty seat. Or worse.
After dinner and another bottle of wine, I grew brave.
“You know… don’t you? About me.”
“Of course I know.” His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “We’ll get through Christmas, and then you can go.” He struggled to his feet pressing hands on his knees to lift himself and made for the drink’s cabinet by the tree. “Don’t come back.”
I blocked his path. “Don’t be daft.” I reached out to embrace him, but he pushed me away.
“Okay, I’ll just leave now then.”
He poured a whiskey, drained it and stared at the empty glass. “I said it without thinking. Take no notice, son.” He looked at me and his eyes were bright blue, glittering with reflected fairy lights.
“I never did.”
And then he hugged me, without hesitation.
I felt gnarly fingers dig into my back and the cool uncertainty of his love.
Ronald J Greig grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland but has spent the last 30 years in London. He has an enduring love for ghost stories, science fiction, and tales of the macabre, especially those with a modern or queer twist. Ronald has had three previous short stories published.
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