Mr Lynch’s Holiday Read Online Free Page B

good.’

5
    ‘It looks as if they’re out.’
    ‘I’d say so.’
    They remained where they were, staring at the front door. Walnut veneer, matt finish, discreet brushed-steel escutcheon. Eamonn simmered on a low boil: irritated with Jean and David for their absence; irritated with himself for ever thinking they might be home. They would be out, of course. Walking purposelessly. Rambling. He saw them most days, David with his rucksack, his Berghaus map case; Jean in her dove greys, her outdoors sandals and floppy sunhat. He’d look up from his laptop and watch them through the window as they passed by, their faces betraying no particular joy at the prospect. Keeping busy, keeping active. Ever onwards.
    He wondered what now to do with his father. He considered the eight-mile trek to and from the shop, the preparation of lunch, the eating of lunch and the protracted clearing up after lunch was more than enough activity for one day. But still the afternoon had stretched ahead of them. And still Dermot had sat on the futon, with apparently nothing to do. Every image he had of his father was of him busying himself at some task. If not actually out at work, he would be gardening, or washing the Astra, or rearranging tools in the garage, or doing something impenetrable with the gutters. Even his occasional moments of relaxation had an intent quality to them. A concerted decision to sit down and watch a television programme between certain times. A silent hour in the front room reading one of his library books. In retirement, with Kathleen virtually
housebound, his industry had only increased, with shopping, cooking and cleaning added to the rest of his domestic duties. This sitting about, doing nothing, was unsettling. It made Eamonn think he should be providing activities.
    Jean and David had been his best idea. It wasn’t a match made in heaven. He didn’t see that much common ground between his father and a couple of retired bookkeepers from Hampshire, but all three of them were polite and friendly and, more importantly, all were over sixty-five and thus possessors of the mysterious art of making lengthy conversation about absolutely nothing at all. Perhaps they’d offer to take Dermot on one of their rambles.
    ‘Shall we call on someone else?’ Dermot ventured and Eamonn wondered if he too was finding their time together passing slowly. With Jean and David away there were few obvious second choices. He considered Rosemary and Gill, also in their sixties, also very pleasant, but gay and therefore problematic. He wasn’t sure what his father might make of them being a couple, or if he would even realize that they were and, if not, then Eamonn might have to explain that fact and perhaps even the whole concept of lesbianism to him. Eamonn’s anxiety was even greater at the prospect of Dermot sitting in Raimund and Simon’s lounge, staring at the various monochrome male nudes that covered their walls. There was Inga the Swedish woman, who lived on her own, but Eamonn knew little about her beyond her nationality and her fondness for painting. About Henri and Danielle he knew only that they came from Toulouse. That left Roger and Cheryl, who he was actively avoiding, and Ian and Becca, who he actively disliked.
    He considered giving up on the idea altogether, but the thought of returning to the flat with Dermot stopped him. It was one thing to avoid work, to waste hours on YouTube, to moon about the flat and write pleading emails to Laura. It was
another thing entirely to do that with your father sitting on the futon constantly saying, ‘Don’t mind me now, just get on with whatever it is you have to do.’
    ‘I suppose we could give Ian and Becca a try.’
    ‘You’re the boss.’
    Eamonn hesitated. ‘They’re just acquaintances. Not friends.’
    Ian and Becca had moved in three months after he and Laura and it bothered him enormously that anyone might think the two couples, both in their thirties, both having