Page 41 of Pull Me Under

Dot swivels towards me, offended. ‘It’s not a small thing, Jude Harding. What if it had been important. Or secret. Like a sex toy?’

‘Dot. Please.’ I hold my hand up to stop her continuing this line of theory. ‘It was probably something from an old lady catalogue.’ And that’s what I will tell myself should this conversation ever pop into my memories.

Dot’s expression says otherwise. ‘That’s not the point⁠—’

Malcolm’s voice cuts across the pub, louder than necessary. ‘I’m telling you, George, rope rode better in a blow. Chain’ll have you swinging all over the bloody harbour.’

‘Chain’s got weight,’ George fires back. ‘Keeps you steady. You want scope, you need chain.’

‘You want scope, you need brain cells, which you’re clearly⁠—’

Tom sighs and abandons me for diplomacy. Dot, blessedly, spots someone else to torment and flutters off towards the corner table where Mary Tremaine is sitting with her knitting.

I’m alone again.

Not alone. Surrounded. But somehow, impossibly, alone.

Outside, rain streaks the pub window. I watch it run down the glass and think about how storms churn up nutrients from the deep.

Then I hear it.

Dad’s voice, carrying from the other end of the bar like he wants to be overheard. Like he’s playing to an audience.

‘Trelawney girl thinks she’s going to run a fishing business without a boat.’ He laughs – sharp and mean. ‘Shows how much she knows. Trelawneys never did have much sense. Or staying power.’

Heat crawls up my neck. My fingers tighten around the glass.

She has a boat. He knows she has a boat. I told him this morning when we were resetting the Mary Jane for the coming week, and he asked what she was up to in there. He was standing on the dock, listening to the clanging and banging and asked me what it was, and I said, Brynn Trelawney’s bought herself a day-trawler and he said – what did he say? Something about Trelawneys and money and a fool being easily parted. So he knows. He was there. This morning. Just hours ago.

But he’s saying it like he doesn’t remember.

I add it to the catalogue. The growing, terrible catalogue of things my father forgets and I pretend not to notice.

‘She has a boat,’ I say, loud enough the whole damn place turns to look at me.

He turns slowly. Looks at me. Looks through me.

‘Stay away from her.’

It’s not a suggestion. His jaw is set but his eyes are slightly off – not quite focused on my face, more on the space around it.

‘You can’t tell me shit.’ My voice is quiet. Controlled. ‘I’m a grown man.’

‘Then act like it.’ His jaw works, grinding bitterness between his teeth. Then, turning back to his pint, muttered low enough that maybe only I catch it: ‘Need to tell Kit to keep an eye on things.’

‘Kit’s in New York, Dad. You said so yourself ten minutes ago.’

‘I know that.’ Too quick. Too sharp. He takes a long pull of his pint. ‘The Trelawneys break everything they touch. It’s best you don’t find that out for yourself.’

The pub has gone quiet. Even Malcolm and George have stopped arguing. Everyone’s watching now – the Hardings, airing their wounds in public like we always do. Bill’s at his usual table, eyes down, careful not to get involved. Frankie’s pretending to read the racing pages. Ayo’s polishing a glass with the studied concentration of a man who’s learned exactly when not to intervene.

‘Says you,’ I manage.

I stand. The stool scrapes. I drain what’s left of my pint and set the glass down too hard. Tom opens his mouth – probably to play peacekeeper, to smooth it over – but I’m already moving.

Already gone.

The door slams behind me and the rain hits like a punishment.