Part 22 (1/2)

Finn was carrying a tall stack of gla.s.ses. It was doing a fair imitation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. 'Aw,' he moaned, as I took them out of his hands, 'I was doin' it!'

'Just a bit wobbly.'

He stood glowering as I loaded the top rack. I could tell he had something on his mind. 'I still get a chocolate though, don't I? I was doin' it until you b.u.t.ted in.'

'Sure do, Batman.' I lifted a box of Quality Street from the top of the fridge, and he grabbed one. 'Take another for Charlie,' I said.

His jaw dropped in outrage. 'What? No! Did Charlie help with the dishes?'

'Well, no, but-'

'No dishes, no chocolate.' Finn folded his arms. I could see the family murderess appraising me with livid blue eyes.

'Remember the workers in the vineyard,' said Kit, appearing from the hall. 'Jolly useful parable, that one.'

'The who?' Finn blinked uncertainly at the dishwasher. 'I never worked in a . . . thing yard. I helped with the dishes.'

Kit laughed, and made for the kettle.

'Midnight in the UK,' I said, looking at the clock. 'Big Ben is striking. I wonder what Dad's doing?'

'Probably dancing naked in the garden with all his hippy friends. They'll re-enact a druidical solstice ceremony.'

'Ooh!' Finn looked scandalised. 'Who's naked? Grandpa? Grandpa's in the nuddy!'

It wasn't an image I wanted to dwell on. 'I'll phone him,' I decided. 'Off you go, Finn. Charlie's riding his bike round the walnut tree.'

'Okay,' said Finn, rummaging in the chocolate box and surrept.i.tiously shoving a handful down his shorts.

As it happened, Dad was seeing in the New Year with Flora. We were chatting happily when I was distracted by a resounding metallic smash, followed swiftly by screams. They weren't angry yells; they were high and panicked. Seconds later, Kit pounded through the kitchen and out of the back door.

'Gotta go, Dad,' I said, and dashed after Kit. Under the walnut, Finn was sobbing in his father's arms.

'Finn's bike did a roly-poly,' said Charlie, making his arm swing in an arc. 'Like this-bam!'

'The wheel got stuck,' wailed Finn.

I knelt beside him. 'Did you hit your head?'

'Not my head, my arm. Ow!'

'Naughty bike,' commiserated Charlie, laying a sympathetic hand on his brother's leg. 'I'll get Buccaneer Bob for a cuddle.'

Kit carried Finn into the sitting room where I took a closer look at him. There was no sign of concussion. He clutched Bob, stroking his own ear.

'Where does it hurt?' I asked.

With a tragic pout he held out his right wrist. It looked normal save for a small lump on the thumb side, and he could move all his fingers.

'Probably a sprain.' I gave him some Pamol while Kit filled a sock with ice and bandaged it onto the wrist. By the time we'd finished, Finn was calm and asking for Mary Poppins. She was always wheeled out at times of stress. Whenever things went wrong, the boys would want the magic nanny with the sweet smile and indefatigable confidence.

Kit followed me out of the room. 'What's the verdict?'

'Gave us all a fright, but no harm done.'

'Concussion?'

'Nah. He's sure he didn't fall on his head.'

'I could take him to a doctor. Get him checked out.'

'On New Year's Day?' I flapped a hand. 'Nearest medical centre's in Napier. I don't know about you, but I don't feel like driving all that way just to be told he's sprained his wrist. He's much better tucked up at home.'

After the film Finn rallied, eating toasted sandwiches and playing Ludo. He fell asleep before bedtime, though. We found him lying on the sitting-room floor with his rear stuck up in the air.

'Big day for a little chap,' I said.

Kit picked him up. 'You sure I shouldn't drive him down to the hospital?'

I shook my head, yawning. Our early start was catching up on me. 'Nope. It's too far, and the emergency department will still be heaving with drunken revellers. Just put him to bed.'

'You're the expert.' Kit gathered his son closer, and carried him upstairs.

At about three in the morning, Finn wandered whimpering into our room. I could barely drag my eyes open, but gave him some more Pamol and settled him down between us. He was happy enough for the rest of the night; his parents, on the other hand, were kneed and jabbed and elbowed by a pocket-sized tyrant. As the sun came up I heard a creak and saw Kit by the chest of drawers, pulling on his trousers.

'Where are you off to?' I asked, turning the clock around to face me. 'b.l.o.o.d.y Nora, man. Ten to six! Have you finally lost your marbles?'

Kit jerked his head at Finn, who was sprawled horizontally across the bed. 'McNamara has murdered sleep,' he said softly. 'I'll get down to the studio and make the most of the peace.'

Stretching, I stole his pillow. 'Any chance of a lovely cup of tea, while you're on your feet?'

A sleepy voice piped from beside me, 'Dad . . . Dad?'

Kit instantly sat and gathered the small figure onto his lap. 'Finn . . . Finn?'

Watching father and son smiling at one another, I was struck by how very alike they were. Physically it was obvious-you couldn't miss the wayward dark hair and wide-set blue eyes. It was more than looks, though; it was their restless pa.s.sion. Both were selfish yet generous, quick-tempered yet funny, mocking yet vulnerable. Brooding storms one day, suns.h.i.+ne the next. There was a deep, exclusive understanding between them.

Finn reached out a small hand, patting his father's cheek. 'Will you take us to the beach today?'

Kit pretended to bite the hand. 'For you, Finn McNamara, anything.'

Sacha sent a text later, asking to be collected from town. I had some grocery shopping to do, so I said I'd be there in an hour.

As I pulled up at the kerb, she got in without a word.

'Happy New Year!' I cried. 'Had a good time?'