Chapter 5
The path snaking alongside Regent’s Canal was full of Saturday lunchtime joggers with earphones jammed in, decked out in the latest activewear, caps pulled low, checking their fitness apps as they sweated past. Pram-pushing parents enjoyed their escape into the sunshine, and pairs of young people strolled along with carefree grins, because Saturday night still stretched ahead and they didn’t have to think about work again until Monday morning. There was a backdrop of old and new brown-brick buildings across the water punctuated by a crane, while on their right ran a long stretch of graffitied wall.
The Hackney London Borough Council could do with borrowing Sergeant Badger for a week, Grace thought ruefully. He kept a watchful eye on Emerald Bay and the other nearby towns and villages in her home pocket of Ireland and would soon disarm anyone wielding a can of spray paint. The thought made her grin.
‘What are you smiling about?’ Chris asked with a hint of amusement.
She’d been unaware he was watching her and hoped she hadn’t looked like too much of an eejit beaming away to herself there. ‘I was thinking how Sergeant Badger would end all this graffiti.’ She swept her arm out in an arc.
Chris’s face broke into a smile at the image, too. ‘Yeah, he would. He has a thing about misspent youth, all right. But you don’t see it as art or free expression?’
‘What? Jodi Sux.’ Grace pointed out the black swirls with a shake of her head.
‘Fair play.’ Chris was still smiling as he veered out of oncoming foot traffic to stand in front of the wall. ‘But, here, look at this.’ He pulled his hand from his jeans pocket and gestured to a name with a halo above it. ‘Most of it means something. Street art has a language of its own. This name here, for instance, belongs to a graffiti artist the tagger admired, and the halo above it signals he’s passed away.’
‘How do you know that?’ Grace wondered if she was standing next to a Sergeant Badger fugitive. Maybe Chris was responsible for the doodling on the Bus Stop corner shop’s side wall that had caused a hoo-ha a few years back. They’d never caught the culprit. She couldn’t see it, though, because he’d been so straight-laced back in Emerald Bay. Mind, still waters ran deep, or however the saying went, and having watched him perform as frontman for The Shamrockers, she’d since wondered if she’d labelled him unfairly.
Chris shrugged. ‘Music. It’s how I express myself, and this here is how whoever’s behind it expresses themselves. We all have something.’
Did she? Grace wondered. Ava had her writing, but what about her? Then, glancing down at the on-trend summery boiler suit she wore, she realised hers was fashion. It was a form of art, after all.
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ she concurred with a bolt of self-righteousness, because, like all true artists, she’d suffered for her art and been misunderstood and ridiculed. Her dad, in particular, was a heathen regarding what was in vogue and what wasn’t. If he saw her now, he’d ask her what time she was expecting his car for the oil change and think he was hilarious! Then, remembering who she was keeping company with, she knew he’d have a lot more to say than making a smart-arse remark about her wardrobe choice.
They carried on their way – Chris had suggested she join him to float the festival idea to his bandmates – but Liam Kelly was on Grace’s mind now, and she blurted, ‘Chris, what about our dads?’
‘What about them?’ He shot her a quizzical glance then turned his attention longingly to the golden retriever padding past with its tongue lolling and tail wagging, adding, ‘I’d love a dog. Dad was never keen when we were kids.’
Grace turned in time to see the dog squat to do its business, and she pulled a face as the owner produced a blue bag. ‘You do realise yer woman there is going to have to walk around holding a bag of dog poo until she can find a bin, don’t you?’
For some reason, Chris found that hilarious. Then, remembering what she’d been about to say, Grace continued. ‘If we manage to make this festival happen, then they’re going to find out we’ve been economical with the truth when it comes to our living arrangements. They’ll think it’s some conspiracy between us.’ Grace visualised the Oscar-winning performance of a man betrayed Liam would undoubtedly give when she finally came clean.
‘Economical because it was easier, and given all the stresses and strains of modern living, who doesn’t want an easier life?’
‘That’s all well and good if you’re dealing with normal people, but this is our dads.’
‘You’ve got a good point, but why does it worry you so much? I mean, we’re adults, and whatever went down between them has nothing to do with us.’
It wasn’t the first time Chris had made this point, and he was right. It was just…
‘I’m a daddy’s girl, all right,’ Grace stated sheepishly. ‘I mean, I love my mam just the same, but Dad and I… I don’t know. He understands me, I suppose. We’re alike in lots of ways.’
She liked to know her dad approved of her choices, boiler suits aside, and she didn’t have to dig too deep to know this was why his not knowing Mark Dorrance’s son slept in the room next door to hers bothered her so.
‘I get it. I’m a mammy’s boy.’
Grace eyed Chris, trying to work out whether he was taking the mickey out of her or not, and he met her gaze unblinkingly.
‘I’m not joking. You can ask my brothers. They’ll confirm it. A mammy’s boy. Sure, my dad never understood me or my music. We’re supposed to dutifully follow in his footsteps and join the family business, especially me as the eldest son. But landscaping’s not my thing. I can kill a plant just by looking at it.’
His earnestness made Grace’s mouth twitch. ‘Well, fair play to you, I say. There’s nothing wrong with that. Although I pity whoever you wind up marrying, because you’ll be one of those lads forever after saying to your poor wife, “That’s not how me mam makes it.”’
Chris’s eyes creased, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘You’re probably right. Although you’ll be the sort of girl who’ll say to her husband, “My dad would know how to fix that.”’
‘Touché.’
They exchanged a grin, then Chris sobered. ‘Seriously though, Grace, I’d pick your battles for now if I were you. There are a lot of hoops to jump through before we even get past go where this music-festival idea is concerned. I don’t know if the lads will be up for it yet. So I wouldn’t worry about fessing up to your auld dad just yet.’
Grace nodded slowly. The idea for the festival fundraiser had only been planted a couple of hours ago, but it had seeded, and she’d be disappointed if they couldn’t get past the first hurdle and convince Chris’s bandmates to agree to be part of it. The thought of pleading her case to the four other members of The Shamrockers made her palms sweat, so she changed the subject.
‘I wonder what it would be like to live in one of those?’ Grace pointed to the colourful canal boats tightly moored, one after the other, as far as her eye could see down the canal. Some were pristine, some needed TLC and none had any signs of life from their inhabitants.
‘Simplistic, I’d imagine. You couldn’t afford to have too much stuff on one of those. You’d have to be streamlined with your belongings, like. But it must be great to be able to moor up and putter off again whenever you feel like it.’
They stopped alongside a boat that would have been a beauty in its day but hadn’t weathered the years well.
‘Wake up somewhere new each day,’ Grace added, picturing herself enjoying her morning brew on the top deck as she watched the world go by. She could see the appeal of canal-boat living, because sometimes life did feel cluttered. You’d set your own pace on one of those.
‘I’d love to live on the water.’ Until that moment, she hadn’t realised, but she would. ‘A houseboat would be my dream.’ She hadn’t realised that either, but the thought of being rocked to sleep each night by water filled her with longing.
Chris was looking at her oddly, but then, seeing the ‘For Sale’ sign in the cabin window, he moved toward it. There was a number to call but no price, and the curtains were closed, meaning there was no way to peek inside.
‘I wonder what she’s called?’ Grace mused.
‘She might not have a name.’
‘All boats have names,’ Grace said knowingly, though she didn’t have a clue. She missed his grin as she added, ‘My boat would have a name.’
‘Oh yeah, and what would that be?’
‘The Emerald, and I’d paint her green to match.’
He grinned. ‘I like it. The Emerald.’
‘I’m glad you approve,’ she twinkled back.
They carried on their way with the sounds of life around Broadway Market growing louder as they approached the steps leading up to the promenade, which was filled with everything from vintage ware to clothing, crafts and incredible street food. Speaking of which, Grace sniffed as something garlicky wafted past. ‘Yum. That smells so good.’
‘Do you want to grab a bite? I’m starving. Breakfast was hours ago.’
Grace didn’t need persuading, and they ventured into the bustling market following their noses, pausing to admire bubbling pots filled with plantain, curries and stews. They settled on a Greek stand serving souvlaki where the queue wasn’t too long.
‘Can you read the menu out?’ Chris asked, squinting at the board. ‘I left my contacts out today to give my eyes a break.’
Grace rattled off the choices available and, when it was her turn to order, asked the dark-haired woman manning the till, ‘They’re not loaded with garlic, are they?’
She was assured that the hummus and sauces wouldn’t have her breathing garlic over everyone that happened her way like she was trying to ward off vampires. She didn’t want to put The Shamrockers off the minute she opened her mouth.
But as they wandered amiably along, forking up meat and salad, Grace fancied the woman had fibbed, because she suspected what was making the tzatziki so delicious was a whole load of garlic.
‘You like your food,’ Chris said, stating the obvious as he watched Grace devouring her souvlaki.
‘How can you tell?’ There was a glint in her eyes as she paused mid-chew, hoping she didn’t look like a chipmunk with pitta-bread-stuffed cheeks.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Chris – who’d a way to catch up on her – said. ‘I think it’s great you have a good appetite.’ He speared a piece of lamb. ‘Ulla always says she’s not hungry. Then she’ll sniff my food and finally ask for a bite of whatever I’m having. It’s annoying, because sometimes I want the whole thing to myself, you know?’
Grace did know. ‘You don’t want to share.’ She completely understood, although she was finding it hard to sympathise, given he was the one who’d decided to date a human pencil.
‘Oops, look at that. Chilli sauce,’ Chris said, surprising Grace so she nearly dropped the soggy souvlaki bag as he leaned in and wiped it off the tip of her nose.
‘Oh, thanks.’ Grace didn’t know if the tingling she experienced a split second later was because of the chilli or the unexpected brush of his fingers on her skin, even if it was just nose skin.
Chris went quiet then seemed to concentrate on his food, as though worried he might have overstepped, as they carried on down the market’s pedestrian thoroughfare.
They’d finished and disposed of the evidence by the time they reached the Old Queen’s Head, where Chris had arranged to meet his bandmates and manager. The exterior was traditional with floral window boxes, a sign jutting out from the second-floor gable depicting Queen Elizabeth I and Union Jacks flapping on either side of the entrance to ensure no tourist forgot they were in Britain. Chris held the door to the pub open for her, and Grace could taste the red onions from her meal, which was sitting heavily on her stomach because what happened next mattered.
Clara not losing her and Alfie’s home hinged on her efforts.
Failure wasn’t an option.