31. 31.
31.
W ith his breath entombed by seizing lungs, Folke winced at the resounding clang of his arousal coming to an abrupt halt. Shetland wool hadn’t yet escaped his touch, although Eleanor’s voice had certainly stilled all of Darach’s lustful movements.
Maladroit silence hung like damp within the hallway. There came an awkward clearing of someone’s throat.
“I would’ve warned you,” said Finlay from above Folke. He had to be on the stairs. “But you charged in here like two horny bulls.”
Darach straightened up but did not leave, nor move the hand curled around Folke’s side, while Folke himself fought against cresting vexation.
He demanded, “What are you doing here?”
“I. . .” A lingering pause, Eleanor’s struggle for words audible. “I came to talk to you.” Smooth soles slid over the runner, wood creaking. She must have descended the last of the steps, her palm squeaking over the railing’s end. “I didn’t realise you were—your friend said you had gone to meet someone about your sheep and that you wouldn’t be long.”
Friend.
Folke wanted to be cruel, to tell her Finlay was far more than that. He didn’t think Eleanor much of a prude, but she would have her limits. Limits he longed to test and push until she left him well alone.
“What’s there to talk about?” Embarrassment turned his words waspish. He’d been wound up, blatantly so.
Eleanor struggled further. Then found her parental voice, “I needed to let you calm down so we could talk like adults.”
His jaw strained under anger. “I’m busy. You can be on your way.”
“You can’t throw a temper tantrum every time just to get rid of me.” The rasp of stiff wool suggested she crossed her arms. “You didn’t think I’d let you talk to me that way, did you?”
Darach’s hand left him. “We’ll let ye speak in private.”
Receding footfalls provoked a desire to shout and yell, but Eleanor interjected,“Your friend and I have been working on clearing the spare bedroom.”
“Fin,” snapped Folke. “His name is Fin.”
“Right. If they’re going to stay here, then the least you can do is make sure they have a place to sleep. A clean place.”
“They do, and it’s in my bed!”
He’d not meant to say that, exactly, but was glad all the same. Glad, in particular, at the way Eleanor stammered.
“Surely, not both?”
“Why not?”
Eleanor sighed, tired. “Let’s keep clearing out that room.”
I don’t want to.
Go away.
Let me be with Fin and Darach.
Let me be happy . Uninterrupted.
Nevertheless, Folke’s body stirred into motion, following the fetor of cigarette smoke. Whatever brand Finlay smoked, it wasn’t as unpleasant as this.
“Mind your step, there are a few things right outside the doorway on the left.”
Folke barely got into the room and already his toes nudged something hard. A clatter met uncarpeted flooring by his feet. He bent low to gather whatever it was, fingertips connecting with paintwork, the well-loved toy immediately familiar. Nostalgia pinged alongside each angry beat of his heart as he fidgeted with the shifting legs of a small, wooden dog.
“We didn’t get far,” Eleanor said behind him. “There’s so much.”
He said nothing.
“Oh, Folke. I’m sorry. If I’d known you preferred men I would have never suggested you go on a date with Alys.”
His scoff couldn’t be helped. “It’s not like I knew. I’m not even sure now.”
All Folke understood was that he liked Finlay and Darach.
“You didn’t give me a choice, anyway,” he continued, biting. “You told me to stop feeling sorry for myself, shoved me into the bedroom to get changed, and then made sure I got into the car with her.”
“Right.”
Eleanor’s cowed response loosened the binds of his anger. Not enough for him to fill the silence.
“That wasn’t my best parenting moment,” she muttered.
Folke turned to the entrance, where she remained. “Was it ever your job to parent me?”
“Astrid asked me to, if anything ever happened to her.”
“Mor hated the idea of me needing help. She wouldn’t have asked anyone to do that.”
“She wasn’t exactly maternal,” Eleanor drew nearer, “but she loved you. More than she was capable of showing. Your mor wanted to be sure you’d be alright. Although she gave me strict instructions to let you figure things out on your own first before I jump in to help.”
His breath fled in a huff. “That sounds more like her.”
“And I was there, you know.”
Folke bristled. “Were you?”
“When I could, I was there. You lost your mother and that’s awful, Folke. But you’re forgetting, I lost my sister. What you went through was something no one should ever have to, and not a day goes by when I don’t wish I’d gone to check on you sooner. Astrid and I had a fight that day.”
Folke remembered that. They had often argued, although on that day, it had sounded especially corrosive.
“I needed to clear my head. We both did. Not once had I imagined—”
Eleanor’s voice hitched with a sob. Instinctively, Folke reached out. Then stopped, unsure. He couldn’t recall the last time he needed to comfort his aunt.
Or anyone else, a pinprick of a voice whispered in his mind.
Did he even know how to comfort?
“I promise you, I was there. I planned her funeral, you know? And I was right behind you. You constantly shook me off, you told me to leave you alone. I couldn’t do that, but I could give you space. What else should I have done?”
Compunction morphed into self-reproach. A hideous transformation nigh impossible to face.
Because Folke knew she was right.
Because he had told her to leave him alone.
He’d shouted and insulted. He’d blamed.
He remembered Eleanor’s presence, as clearly as he heard the wind now, whistling through the cracks.
The constant scent of cigarette smoke mingled with her perfume, too strong and too sweet. Her voice, asking him what she could do. Her touch on his shoulder. Guiding him to the coffin so he could say his farewell. To the car so she could drive him home.
To the front door, where she left without a word because he’d snarled at her to stop talking.
Not once had he consoled Eleanor for a loss she too suffered.
And still he had the gall to fault his aunt for keeping distance, not to protect herself, but both to respect his wishes, and his mother’s, at once.
Eleanor had done her best. It wasn’t perfect, but she had tried. Continued to, even now.
More than Folke could say about himself.
Tiny wooden feet clacked in his grip as he raised his hands to scrub his temples. Shame burned alongside anger, rendering him wordless. He fretted the cord stub, once the dog’s tail, and was grateful when Eleanor spoke again.
“Are they good to you?”
Folke huffed in relief this time. “They are.”
With a hint of lightheartedness, “Both, really ?”
“I’ve a lot of lost time to make up for.”
Eleanor’s stunned laugh worsened his embarrassment. He hoped Finlay wasn’t near enough to overhear any of this.
“That used to be your favourite toy, you know.”
He flicked its feet back and forth.
“I remember.” Setting it at a slope would let it walk. It used to fascinate him so much, the how of it beyond his comprehension at the time. “Can’t believe it’s still here.”
Folke reached around, discovering many things long forgotten. His Danish toy soldiers. A chest full of trinkets and photographs Eleanor described to him. Confessing in quiet murmurs the familiar ties severed with her decision to leave their home for England. Expectations leading to defiance.
“You would’ve made a good mor,” Folke found himself saying as he knelt, dragging his palms over an old travel case.
“Not at all,” replied Eleanor with a smile in her voice. “Who’d make a great parent to a child they don’t want?”
“Did Mor not want children either, is that why she left Denmark?”
Eleanor’s swift descent to grasp his shoulders startled him. “She wanted you, Folke. Don’t ever doubt that. Astrid left only because of me. And your Far was so in love with her, it didn’t matter where they went, as long as he could be with her.”
“Sounds romantic.”
Shame it had ended in tragedy.
Tragedies.
“I’m sorry,” Folke croaked. Admitted in shame, “I never thought about how you felt.” Because he was selfish. Ungenerously assumed neither his aunt nor his mother cared for each other. “You always argued.”
“God, we did.” Knees slid across old flooring as Eleanor settled down by him. “Astrid was always so hard on you.”
Folke succeeded in not squirming under her touch, sliding over his forearm. “She just wanted me to be self-sufficient.”
“I know.”
When all else remained unsaid and the moments staggered by, they both turned back to their task in clearing the room. Only to uncover things to reminisce about again, from ancient baby rattles to his father’s phonograph.
Wistfully, Eleanor murmured, “Otto’s pride and joy.”
Folke knew he shouldn’t. The words, “Fin might like this,” darted past his lips, regardless.
Was he wrong to want to gift it to his lover? It held no sentimental value, after all.
“He likes music,” Folke said a touch hastily, feeling the need to justify his thoughts turning to Finlay first and foremost. “A huge Al Bowlly fan.”
“Really?” Eleanor’s laugh was faint, humouring. “I’m surprised you know who that is.”
He didn’t.
“It’s yours,” she continued. “You can do what you like with all of this.”
“I suppose.”
It was old, likely outdated. Finlay was bound to have one far better than this at home, wherever home was for him.
Folke tapped the pavilion, its brass smooth and clean. A testament to the care his far had given it.
He didn’t know where Finlay’s home was. Irish roots, but had he a home in America?
And Darach he knew just as little about.
“Everything alright?”
“Yes,” Folke replied, musingly.
Just needed to make more of an effort, with everyone.
Including Thomas, perhaps, if he was feeling generous.
“Do you want to stay for dinner? I’m told it’s my turn to cook.”
Eleanor hesitated, something heavy sliding across her palms before it thunked to the floor. “That’s very sweet of you, but—”
He combed dusty fingers through his hair. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to feed you oxtail soup.”
A subtle sound of disgust. “Thank you, but that’s not why. I have a date tonight.”
“You. . .do?” Folke baulked. “It’s not another officer, is it?”
“No.” Eleanor softly chuckled. “He’s a mail clerk for the railway.”
Folke puckered his lips. “I feel like you could do better.”
“Oh, don’t be like that. He’s very sweet. He’s got a bit of a stutter, it’s adorable.”
Christ.
“As long as he’s good to you,” he muttered.
“Time will tell,” said Eleanor, easily, and once again he could hear the smile in her voice.
Folke’s own mouth echoed it.