Page 59 of Pull Me Under

Chapter Fourteen

JUDE

Thursday morning starts with Dad calling me Kit.

‘Kit, have you checked the nets?’ He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, still in his pyjamas at half seven, hair uncombed, that unfocused look in his eyes that’s becoming more frequent. ‘The forecast says weather’s coming. We need to get the catch in before⁠—’

‘It’s Jude, Dad.’ I keep my voice even. ‘Kit’s in New York, remember? With Isla and Maisie.’

He blinks. For a moment, confusion clouds his face – that terrible blankness where I can see him reaching for a fact that should be right there and finding nothing. Then it clears, and he’s back. Mostly.

‘Right. New York.’ He runs a hand through his hair, embarrassed now, which is almost worse than the confusion. ‘Of course. I knew that.’

The wrong name. Always the wrong name. Even when Kit’s three thousand miles away, he’s the one Dad reaches for first.

‘Tea’s in the pot,’ I say, turning back to the stove. ‘Toast in a minute.’

We don’t talk about the slip. We never do. Just move past it, pretend it didn’t happen, add it to the growing catalogue of things we’re not acknowledging.

The catalogue is getting long.

This is what mornings are now. First the fog, then the anger. The anger at least sounds like him.

I’m buttering toast when he says, ‘Heard the Trelawney girl’s doing her assessment today.’

My hand stills on the knife. ‘Where’d you hear that?’

‘Dot.’ His voice has an edge now, the confusion replaced by old stubbornness. More familiar. ‘She says you’re the one running it.’

Of course Dot told him. Dot tells everyone everything – it’s her calling, her art form, the thing she was put on this earth to do. And of course she framed it as Jude’s doing, because it is, and because that makes it a better story.

‘It’s just an assessment, Dad. Cal asked me to run it.’ Because I opened my stupid mouth and vouched for her, but Dad doesn’t need to know that part. ‘She probably won’t pass.’

The lie comes easily. Too easily.

‘She’d better not.’ He’s at the table now, mug clenched in both hands like he’s trying to strangle it. ‘Bad enough she’s back at all, sniffing around the harbour like she owns the place. But the lifeboat? That’s ours. Hardings have served on that crew for three generations.’

‘I know.’

‘Your grandfather helped build that station. I spent thirty years⁠—’

‘I know, Dad.’

He says it with total authority, total clarity. The long-term memories are granite – 1974, the station dedication, every boat he’s ever crewed. It’s the new ones that dissolve. He can remember his grandfather hauling the first keel block into position. He can’t remember that Kit left for New York three weeks ago.

‘That family has no business⁠—’

‘I said I know.’ Sharper than I intended. I take a breath, set the plate of toast in front of him. ‘It’s just an assessment. I’ll make sure it’s thorough.’

What I don’t say: She’ll pass. I’ve seen her certificates. I’ve seen her work. She’s more qualified than half the people who’ve applied in the last two years.

What I definitely don’t say: I’m the one who told Cal and Bill exactly that, in detail, like a man compiling his own execution order.

I did this to myself. I literally argued my way into this.

‘Just make sure you do,’ Dad says. ‘Thorough.’

‘I will.’