Warm Honey by Cornford Dave & McAlpine Steve

Author:Cornford, Dave & McAlpine, Steve [Cornford, Dave]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2014-05-24T16:00:00+00:00

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Chris was right about Charis. She did have balls. And that was it wasn’t it? It was all about balls. Dad didn’t have the balls to say no to Charis, while Gracie had the balls to come round and let me have it. Where did that leave me and my prevaricating? In the midst of it all Bevan was close to dying. If Stu, Chris or I were not suitable donors the window of opportunity was pretty small to find another one. What if Jesse and Lauren were compatible?

And hadn’t Gracie shown her true colours to us? She‘d made it clear that Dad’s past family was exactly that - his past. She didn’t see the irony that when she met Dad it was his present family that she tore apart. I’d often wondered what would have happened if when Gracie got involved with Dad, Mum had stormed round to her house like Gracie did to mine and told her to keep away from her family. Why hadn’t Mum dived in and saved the whole family from the dark swollen river that was Gracie, like she did me that time in the National Park? Our family was swept away by that woman. What would Dad have done if Mum had dived in? Stood on the sidelines looking on sheepishly, that’s what.

The women in our family had been the strong ones. And now with the Charis Light Brigade charging in, I was repeating the pattern. When we’d gone to Dad’s and Gracie’s that first time for dinner, Charis had said she’d been glad to be part of something that breaks a circuit. Why didn’t the men ever do that? We were still going round in those eternal loops. Maybe it was a family curse.

Dad’s dad had worked the Belfast shipyards: a breeding ground for tough fighting Ulster Defence Association types. Men to be feared. Men who beat their own wives and played around with other men’s. Yet the ship they’re most famous for is the Titanic. Dad’s dad was a riveter and he grew strong and wiry from the hot metal and the pounding hammer. What did he do with that strength? He diluted it pint after pint, before wasting the rest of it beating my grandmother. Not once did these men look to the scudding grey Ulster sky and dream of something brighter beyond it. Or if they did, they lacked the willpower to do anything about it. In the end their dreams would curdle like the jars of buttermilk they drank to wash down their bread and dripping sandwiches.

“Who’s for cards?” they’d say, wiping their mouths on their grey serge coats that kept out the Ulster damp. They’d pull out their baccy and papers and sit smoking waiting for the whistle to haul them back to the dock. A life that celebrated the eternal loop, and would have feared anything else.

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