“I’ll be fine,” said Ray.

Katie got down onto her hands and knees and put her head inside the tent. She snuggled close to Jacob and kissed his cheek. “Sleep tight, banana.” Then she got up again and turned to Jamie. “Come on. We’d better go and keep Mum company.”

She headed back toward the house.

Jamie got to his feet. He put his hand on Ray’s shoulder and patted it gently. Ray didn’t react.

He walked over the damp grass toward the lit house.

75

Katie knew there was going to be a row over supper. She could feel it in the air. If things went particularly badly they could have an argument about her own wedding, Dad’s mental health and Mum’s lover all at the same time.

Halfway through the spaghetti Bolognese Mum said she sincerely hoped Dad wouldn’t be having any more silly accidents. There was a slightly hunted look on her face and it seemed pretty obvious to Katie that she knew the chisel story was bollocks but wanted to make sure neither of them did. There was one of those uneasy silences where you can hear everyone chewing and the scrape of cutlery and Jamie saved the situation by saying, “And if he does, let’s hope he does it in the garden,” which allowed them to defuse the tension with a bit of forced laughter.

They were clearing the plates when Mum dropped the big one. “So, is there going to be a wedding or not?”

Katie gritted her teeth. “I just don’t know, OK?”

“Well, we’re going to have to know pretty soon. I mean it’s all very well us being sympathetic, but I’ve got to make some rather difficult phone calls and I’d rather not leave them any longer than I have to.”

Katie put her hands flat on the table to calm herself. “What do you want me to say? I don’t know. Things are difficult at the moment.”

Jamie paused in the doorway with the plates.

“Well, do you love him or not?” asked Mum.

And that was when Katie really lost it. “What the hell do you know about love?”

Mum looked as if she’d been slapped.

Jamie said, “Hang on. Hang on. Let’s not have a shouting match. Please.”

“Butt out,” said Katie.

Jean sat back in her chair and closed her eyes and said, “Well, if you’re feeling like that then I think it’s safe to assume that there’s going to be no wedding.”

Jamie’s hands were actually shaking. He put the plates back down on the table. “Katie. Mum. Can we just leave this, OK? I think we’ve all been through enough already.”

“What the fuck has this got to do with you?” said Katie, and she knew it was childish and spiteful but she needed sympathy, not a bloody lecture.

Then Jamie lost it, too, which she hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“It’s got everything to do with me. You’re my sister. And you’re my mother. And the two of you are screwing everything up.”

“Jamie…” said Mum, as if he was six.

Jamie ignored her and turned to Katie. “I’ve spent the last twenty minutes sitting outside with Ray and he’s a really nice guy and he’s busting a gut to make it easy for you.”

Katie said, “Well, you’ve changed your tune.”

“Shut up and listen,” said Jamie. “He’s putting up with all this crap. And he’s giving you a place to live for as long as you like even though you don’t love him, because he cares for you and he cares for Jacob. He drives up here and sits in the garden because he’s perfectly aware that Mum and Dad don’t like him-”

“I never said that,” countered Mum weakly.

“And I’ve sat with Dad today and talked to him and there is something seriously wrong with him and he didn’t have an accident with a stupid fucking chisel. He was chopping himself up with a pair of scissors and you’re hoping it’ll all blow over. Well, it’s not going to blow over. He needs someone to listen to him or he’s going to stick his head in the oven and we’re all going to end up feeling like shit because we pretended there was nothing wrong.”

Katie was so stunned by Jamie’s sudden character change that she didn’t hear what he was saying. No one spoke for a couple of seconds and then Mum started to cry very quietly.

Jamie said, “I’m going to take some pudding into the garden,” and walked out, leaving the plates on the table.

76

Jean went upstairs and lay down on the bed and cried until she had run out of tears.

She felt desperately lonely.

Because of Jamie, mostly. Katie she could understand. Katie was going through a difficult time. And Katie argued with everyone, about everything. But what had come over Jamie? Did he have any idea of what she had been through today?

She no longer understood the men in her family.

She sat up and blew her nose on a tissue from the box on the bedside table.

Though, to be frank, she wasn’t sure that she ever had.

She remembered Jamie at five. Going off to his room “to be private.” Even now they would be talking sometimes and it was like talking to someone in Spain. You got the basics. The time of day. Directions to the beach. But there was a whole level you were missing because you didn’t speak the language properly.

And it might have been all right if she could just give him a cuddle sometimes. But he wasn’t the cuddling sort. No more than George was.

She walked over to the window and pulled the curtains back and looked down into the darkened garden. There was a tent somewhere in the shadows under the trees at the far end.

The idea of swapping places with Ray seemed suddenly very attractive, being down there in a sleeping bag with Jacob.

Away from the house. Away from her family. Away from everything.

77

When George came round they’d gone. Jean, Katie, Jamie, Jacob, Ray. He was rather relieved, to be honest. He was exceedingly tired, and his family could be hard work. Especially en masse.

He was beginning to think that he could do with a spot of reading, and wondering how he might be able to get his hands on a decent magazine, when the curtains were opened by a large man in a battered canvas jacket. He was entirely bald and carrying a clipboard.

“Mr. Hall?” He rotated a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles up onto his very shiny head.

“Yes.”

“Joel Forman. Psychiatrist.”

“I thought you chaps went home at five o’clock,” said George.

“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it.” He flicked through some papers on the clipboard. “Sadly, people only get crazier as the day wears on, in my experience. Self-medication, usually. Though I’m sure that doesn’t apply to you.”

“Certainly not,” said George. “Though I’ve been taking some antidepressants.” He decided not to mention the codeine and the whiskey.

“What flavor?”

“Flavor?”

“What are they called?”

“Lustral,” said George. “They make me feel absolutely terrible, to be honest.”

Dr. Forman was one of those men who did humor without smiling. He looked like a villain from a James Bond film. It was disconcerting.

“Weeping, sleeplessness and anxiety,” said Dr. Forman. “Always makes me laugh when I read that under possible side effects. I’d chuck them, frankly.”

“OK,” said George.

“You were doing some amateur surgery, I hear.”

George explained, slowly and carefully, in a measured voice with a little self-deprecating humor thrown in, how he had ended up in hospital.

“Scissors. The practical approach,” said Dr. Forman. “And how are you now?”

“I feel better than I have done in quite a long time,” said George.

“Good,” said Dr. Forman. “But you’ll still be seeing the psychologist at your GP’s surgery, won’t you.” This was not phrased as a question.

“I will.”

“Good,” said Dr. Forman again, jabbing the paper on the clipboard with the end of his pen in a little rounding-off flourish. “Good.”