CHAPTERTHREE
Two whole days of misery passed. George tried to catch up with some of his reading, but he was too distracted by thoughts of Millie. Dragged down by disappointment and thoughts of his own inadequacy. Consumed with how differently Owen would have handled it. Certain, if it had been Owen in his situation, he would have been on a second date by now, even perhaps more. Owen changed his girls like some people changed underwear. It was impossible to concentrate. But he had avoided another confrontation with his father. Staying at home, mostly in bed, had provided one compensation.
‘Nice cup of tea for you, Georgie, love.’ Sally Halcyon placed a mug of tea on the bedside table beside the immobile mound of bedding on her son’s bed. Somewhere under the heap of bedding was her son.
George pretended to be asleep. The edge of the mattress dipped as his mother sat. He steadied his breath to a slow pace, a way he imagined it might sound when he was genuinely sleeping. He stopped himself from faking a snore, deciding that might overdo the pretence.
‘Come on, lovie.’ His mum gently nudged him. ‘You can’t spend all week in bed. Unless you’re sick.’ A note of anxiety sharpened her tone. ‘Are you sick?’
Only love-sick, he thought. I’ve fallen for the most beautiful girl in the world. A girl way too good for me, Millie. Millie Mackie self-confessed nosy person who would sniff out in no time at all that he was not good enough for her and then it would all be over between them. Over before it had even started. Might as well face it–end it now. Spend the rest of the summer holiday in bed trying to catch up on reading and try to forget Millie.
‘Drink your tea before it goes cold.’ His mother was saying as she patted his rump.
George groaned.
‘There you are!’
He could hear the smile in her voice. His mum had that sort of voice. No wonder she was a good singer. Even when she was only talking, there was music in the sounds she made. He pulled himself out from under the cover, feeling hot, a little suffocated and a lot stupid.
‘Thanks mum.’ He reached over for the mug. ‘Sorry, to be a pain.’
‘You’re not. You probably needed a good long sleep.’
‘Hmm.’ George sipped the tea.
‘Would you like me to make you some toast?’
‘No, thanks, Mum. Not hungry.’
‘Youareill!’ Sally Halcyon swung around and fastened her dark green eyes on George, anxiously probing his face like she could see right into his head.
‘No, no. I’m not,’ he argued. ‘I just don’t feel hungry. Don’t worry Mum, don’t fuss.’
She stood and started tidying his room. ‘I’m not worried, and I’m not fussing. But I know you had another argument with your father the other day and then you were late home and since then you’ve been holed up in your room, hardly coming out at all.’
‘How did you know I quarrelled with Dad?’
She stopped midpoint in picking up his discarded clothes from the floor and stood straight. ‘Georgie, love. Nothing happens around here to a Halcyon without it being on the jungle drums in no time flat.’
He took a mouthful of tea. His mum was right. Someone at the garage would have passed the word on, and before long, everyone in the area would have known George, son and heir to the Halcyon dynasty. had stormed out on his father, swearing at him in a way that no other man alive would have dared.
‘What’s Dad said?’
‘Nothing lovie. You know what he’s like. A man of very few words, is your dad.’
Sally finished gathering her son’s clothes from the floor and, casting another anxious glance at him, she said, ‘I’ll run you a nice hot bath and put out some clean clothes for you. Once you’re fresh and dressed, you never know. You might find your appetite.’
‘Thanks, mum.’ He watched as she walked to the door. Life wasn’t an entire disaster. He still had his mum.
Full of egg and bacon,George set out from his front door with no clear destination in mind. His mum had been right about him feeling better (and hungrier) after a bath, but now he was outside on the street, he wasn’t sure what to do. He took one step towards the pub, then stopped, and wondered, would Millie be working the lunch or afternoon sessions? She had said the other night she mostly did evenings. But dare he risk seeing her again? What if she had discovered he was a criminal’s son? He turned, looked in the other direction, towards the tube and the bus routes. He could go into the West End, perhaps buy some clothes, maybe get something for his mum. Her birthday was at the end of August. He shrugged, unable to work up enthusiasm for shopping in the summer heat. Pub it was then. Millie probably wasn’t there.
Bedecked with hanging baskets and tubs overflowing with white petunias, purple pelargoniums and crimson geraniums, the Fig looked very summery. Choosing to drink outside, some of the new clientele were taking advantage of the recently installed dark green wrought iron street furniture. George elected to go inside. The refurbishment had included air-con, and the interior was almost arctic in contrast to the hot sunlit street. George paused on the doormat. No old faces. All new city types. A good mix of men and women, no one much older than thirty, he reckoned. Behind the bar, Pete, the manager, was serving. No sign of Millie. Perhaps he should call round at her flat? He’d walked her home the other night, so he knew where she lived. He shook his head, thinking she was probably out, or she might slam the door in his face.
‘You’re in early.’
George swung round and came face to face with Millie. ‘Yes, yes. I…. thirsty. The heat, you know.’
She grinned at him.
