‘Playing what?’
‘Flying races… like in the dragon book.’
‘Races, eh?’
Arthur nodded, seriously. ‘I’m seeing which one the flies the best.’
It was only then that Noah noticed the scatter of chess pieces across the hallway floor. The frustration of the past twenty-four hours boiled over. ‘Whatever you’ve got in your hand, I want you to give it to me!’ Arthur blinked in shock at Noah’s raised voice. ‘Now!’
Arthur held out his fist and uncurled his fingers. And there, resting on his sweaty, chubby palm, was the white queen. Noah lunged up the stairs and snatched it from him. Then returned to the hall and started collecting up the other pieces, checking each one for damage as he did so.
‘These aren’t toys, Arthur. Anyway, you shouldn’t be throwing things around, especially things that do not belong to you! You could have broken them.’ Noah was too focused on his task to see Arthur’s lip wobble, and the appearance of an audience for their altercation.
Angus had emerged from the kitchen, mug of coffee in his huge paw of a hand. ‘What’s going on?’ Mild-mannered Angus. A man so laid-back that the desire to smack him in the face was occasionally overwhelming.
Liv appeared in the dining-room doorway. This was turning into an unfunny farce.
On seeing his mother, Arthur decided that he was, on reflection, really upset and promptly burst into tears.
His sobbing only served to wind Noah up further. ‘He was chucking these around the hall. Where did you get them from?’ He knew he was barking at his nephew and he should stop, but he couldn’t. He was mad; why not direct some of that anger at a child, especially one who had no respect for other people’s property?
Arthur, who was by now wailing as if mortally injured, ran over to his mother and buried his face in her stomach. Liv immediately went into full-blown Mommy Bear mode. ‘Noah! He didn’t mean any harm. You need to calm down.’
Noah got up from the floor, his hand full of chess pieces, not knowing who to shout at next.
Angus instinctively, and gallantly, padded across the hall and slid in front of his wife and child. Deflect-and-distract tactics. ‘It’s my fault, Noah. We found them in the chest upstairs. We were playing with them in bed this morning. Arthur liked the shapes. He must have gone upstairs and taken a handful when we got back from the park. Sorry, mate. I didn’t realise they had any sentimental value.’
God, he really did need a punch. That would wipe the placatory easy-going smile off his stupid face. Sentimental! How dare he? It was such a reductive word, so at odds with the emotions careering around Noah’s body. They were all staring at him – none of them kindly. ‘Well, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let the boys have every sodding thing they ask for. It wouldn’t hurt them to hear “No” every now and again.’ Ignoring his crying nephew, Noah swept – as imperiously as he could manage, for someone who had just bawled out a three-year-old – up the stairs, leaving them free to talk about him behind his back.
The biscuit tin containing the other chess pieces was, as Angus had said, lying open on the floor of his old bedroom. Noah retrieved it, and the board. He took everything into his room and closed the door. He wiped the board with his sleeve and put it on the chest of drawers, then carefully laid out the pieces, polishing each one on the hem of his jumper before putting them in place. Black first, then white, as family tradition dictated. He was relieved to discover that none of the pieces had been lost.
It had taken him until he was seventeen to beat his dad. That’s how much of a purist his father had been. There was no throwing a game to build his son’s confidence, no matter how often their early games ended in strops and lengthy sulks. Yet another life lesson meted out in accordance with Jonathan’s principle that children were not a protected species. As he was very fond of saying, repeatedly, chess was a game of skill and strategy – to get good at it took time and patience; to win, you had to be better than your opponent. Hence Jonathan had merely ignored his son’s angst and his wife’s pleas for a little humility, and had been merciless. At the time Noah had seethed with teenage frustration. They’d go months between games, with Noah refusing to give his dad the satisfaction of trouncing him, again, but eventually he’d always come back, desperate to try and best his dad. He’d secretly spent hours watching online tutorials, and even – though it damaged his street-cred no end – sought opponents at school, and later at sixth-form college, in order to improve his game. Indeed it was probably down to Mr Watson, his history teacher, who was always happy to play a few moves over lunchtime, that Noah eventually beat his dad. The realisation he’d done him, and that Jonathan would have to forfeit the game, was one of the best moments of Noah’s life. The fact that his dad hadn’t been gracious in defeat – he’d actually been really pissed off about it – had only served to make the victory even sweeter.
Noah stood back and looked at the chess set, taking pleasure in the memory. His sisters wanted their recollections of their father to be rose-tinted. Noah was glad his came to him in black and white. It was far more honest. Even aside from the infidelity, Noah knew his dad had been flawed. He’d competed at everything. Aggressively. He’d been a royal pain in the arse a lot of the time. He was unforgiving and opinionated. Argumentative. Often impatient. A tough-love sort of dad.
And Noah missed him more than he wanted to admit.
Chapter 19
LUNCH WAS eaten in relays
