Chapter 3

Chapter Three

‘It was awful, Dad, awful. The man thought I'd wet myself.'

Quinn shivered in the graveyard underneath an ancient yew tree. Turns out, thin fabric hippie trousers were not the most practical thing to wear in the icy depths of winter. With a gloved hand, he brushed aside the snow from his father's gravestone. Despite the darkening sky, it felt light here, almost if the light came from the heavens.

He'd said goodbye to Ivy, promising to meet her at the local pub later in the evening. He held a bag with his wet trousers. After today's ordeal, he needed time to himself. Except he wasn't by himself. Not when he came here.

Quinn observed a fresh bouquet lying beneath his father's name: Gerald Oxford . Even seeing his name made Quinn want to cry. He wondered if his mother left the flowers lying in the snow. He didn't even know for certain if Claire still visited the grave. They didn't talk about Gerald often, if at all, and his grave was definitely not something to bring up in conversation.

Quinn crouched so that Gerald's name was eye level.

‘Did Mum leave you these? I wish you could tell me. I know what you're thinking – why don't I just ask her myself? In all honesty, Dad, I don't want to.' Quinn sighed, white mist floating before him. ‘She's so… Well, I doubt you want to know about Harold. But ever since he came around, she's … different.'

Talking about his mother out in the open felt strange. He glanced around the snow-covered graveyard, almost expecting that people would watch him like he was performing a soliloquy. But underneath the yew tree, everything felt so private. Gerald's plot felt secluded, even though it was in a long line of passed souls, some of whom no longer got visitors.

He couldn't recall how he'd started talking to his father like this. Since his death, Quinn needed someone to listen to him. He found it hard to talk to people when they were in front of him, as if they might judge him. His father's dead ear wouldn't judge. His father wouldn't judge full stop. Gerald always had time for Quinn and he never felt like a burden. He had been more to him than just a father – he was a friend and a trusted source of comfort.

Losing that ruined Quinn. When Gerald died, Quinn lost his confidence. The ability to talk to others seemed to die when his father did.

A red robin landed on Gerald's gravestone, holding a twig with a red berry in its petite beak. Quinn smiled.

‘You're listening, Dad,' Quinn said.

When Gerald had been alive, a Reliant Robin was a staple piece in the town. Shining red, it would always be parked outside of Gerald's bookshop, drawing stares of admiration from locals and tourists. Quinn remembered as a child clambering in the odd-shaped car and feeling like he was in a spaceship.

Robins always reminded him of his dad.

‘Anyway, back to that romantic novelist. I think you would have liked him. His books are fantastic. They sweep me up in ways other romance books can't do. Something about his writing speaks to me, you know?' The robin hopped. ‘No, it has nothing to do with the fact that he's fit.'

The robin cocked its head, the twig shifting.

‘What else is there to tell you?'

The robin fluttered its wings, and Quinn feared it would fly away, breaking the connection Quinn had, or at least thought he had, with the red-breasted bird.

Instead, the bird fixed him with a stare, the way it always seemed to do whenever Quinn visited the graveyard between Hay and the neighbouring valley of Cusop Dingle.

‘Shop is going okay,' Quinn said, because telling the truth to his dead father was out of the question. ‘I've got someone helping me out now. Always feel like I've made it if I have an extra pair of hands to help me. Like my business is growing, you know? His name is Daniel Craig.'

The bird hopped, and Quinn laughed.

‘I know. Unfortunately, he looks nothing like Bond. He's straight, too, before you get any ideas. Not bad-looking, but you know. Straight. I had my apprehensions about bringing a straight guy into the fold. Not that there's anything wrong with straight guys, Dad.' Quinn cleared his throat. ‘As far as I know, you were one yourself. No, it's just that the bookshop has this safe feeling to it. A place where people can speak openly if they want to, and without fear of any sort of judgement. Hard to do when someone is straight and you've been told you're wrong all your life by, well, straight people.'

The robin fluttered to the roses, inspecting them. Quinn fought back tears. This was a robin. Only a robin. But he couldn't help but let his imagination run away with him that this was a sign from his father, and that the robin would go back to wherever his father was and tell him all about the beautiful roses.

‘I guess you can call him an ally. He's quite interested in reading about sexuality and the like.'

The robin flew up and away, disappearing into the murky grey landscape.

Quinn sighed, smiling.

‘Maybe I'm boring you,' he said, getting back to his feet. ‘I'll be back soon. Miss you. Love you.'

For a moment, he didn't want to go away. The world waited for him out there, and he didn't know that he could face it at this moment. But the trousers weren't protecting his legs, and his feet had turned to ice. He trudged away from the yew tree, from his dad and the roses, and walked back towards the village of Hay.

It was then that he saw someone standing in the otherwise deserted graveyard. Quinn could only make out the side profile of a man close to the only entrance. Quinn needed to bypass him to get out and get back to his shop before closing. He had little time, but there was no way he could go any further.

It was also impossible that the man stood staring at another grave was Noah Sage.

No, his eyes were playing tricks on him. A cruel trick of the winter light.

Quinn took the path, averting his eyes, hoping he wouldn't have to see the figure.

But as he got closer, his footsteps trudging through the snow, the person turned to see who approached.

It was Noah Sage.

Of all places, why would Noah Sage be here, in this graveyard? The only two people surrounded by departed souls. Or at least, the bodies that once housed them.

‘Hippie guy,' Noah said, taking in his parachute trousers, and Quinn wanted to dig his own grave and get in it. ‘Fancy seeing you here.'

Why was he speaking to him like that? Like they were friends? Familiar? This felt like he'd fallen and bumped his head, and now he was hallucinating.

‘Cat got your tongue?'

Balls. ‘You're Noah Sage.'

Great. That will do. State the obvious and wonder why Noah stepped away from him. Because now he looked like one of those fans that wanted Noah desperately. Which he did, but not in the way those fans wanted him.

Well, maybe like Deb and June wanted him.

‘That's right, I am.' A red blush crept up Noah's neck. ‘And you are?'

‘Going,' Quinn said. ‘Have to dash.'

‘Do you always hang around in graveyards?'

It was a warm question, a gorgeous smile on his rosy-cheeked face. God, he wanted to pinch those cheeks, but he couldn't because that is frowned upon. Pinching cheeks in graveyards was also a little weird.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard the tweet of a robin.

‘Under the yew tree,' Quinn said, and then wanted to kick himself.

‘I see.' Noah paused. ‘You know, those trousers remind me of a parachute.'

Quinn wondered if he would ever be able to forget about this day and these trousers with their patchwork and their soft fabric. The way Noah stared at him, admiring the trousers like they were his own creation, would be seared on his mind like a tattoo.

‘You're visiting someone.' Quinn nodded at the icy tombstone in front of Noah, so he would stop staring at him. He didn't want to catch the name, but couldn't help seeing the last name Sage. A relative of Noah's?

‘I guess I am,' Noah said. ‘Do you work here or something?'

‘Me? Work at a graveyard? No,' Quinn said. ‘Who works at graveyards?'

‘Gravediggers, caretakers, cemetery workers,' Noah listed, and his gloved hand looked absolutely adorable and not at all like it would hold Quinn's hand perfectly.

‘I'm not any of those,' Quinn said. ‘Like I said, I'm going.'

And digging his own grave with every word he spoke.

‘Alright, well, nice meeting you, hippie guy,' Noah said.

He would not be called hippie guy.

But alas, Quinn said nothing, because words evaded him. He squeaked and trudged away, wishing, hoping, praying that maybe he had fallen and bumped his head, and this was all some weird dream.