Free The Boy I Love by Marion Husband

mother’s best china and drinking beer from her crystal glasses. Crackers were pulled in a series of loud bangs that had them both screwing their eyes up tight in a parody of fear. Mick wore a pink paper hat rakishly over one eye and read cracker mottoes in an exact impersonation of Father Greene. The room became hot from the many candles that dripped wax on to the mahogany sideboard and table and illuminated the sepia faces of the unsmiling dead: mother, father, two little sisters, a grandmother stuffed into black bombazine; all stared disapprovingly from their gilt frames.
    In his own voice Mick said, ‘Here’s to us.’ Pouring the last of the port, he clinked his glass against Patrick’s. ‘God bless us, everyone.’
    â€˜To the future,’ Patrick said.
    â€˜Forget the past.’
    â€˜Seconded.’
    â€˜Although it had its moments.’
    Thinking of Paul asleep beneath the lilac tree, Patrick nodded. ‘It did.’
    Mick frowned at him, his dark eyes smiling questions. ‘It did, did it? Tell me more.’
    â€˜You first.’
    â€˜Nothing to tell.’ Mick looked down at his glass, swilling its contents and splashing a ruby stain on the white tablecloth. ‘Major Michael Morgan has never been kissed.’ He glanced up at him. ‘There. Tell the truth and shame the devil.’
    â€˜I don’t believe you.’
    â€˜No?’ He laughed. ‘Well, it is hard to believe, me being so handsome an’ all.’
    â€˜Never?’
    â€˜For Christ’s sake.’ Reaching across the table Mick pinched his cheek. ‘Don’t look so appalled, Patty. It’s not so terrible, is it? I just never got around to it. Too busy being promoted.’
    Mick drained his glass then wheeled his chair away from the table and over to the fire. Taking off the paper hat he screwed it into a ball and tossed it into the flames. The fire flared, sending flimsy charred scraps up the chimney. On the mantelpiece their parents scowled from their wedding portrait. Reaching behind it, Mick produced two cigars. ‘So,’ he smiled. ‘Tell me who made your war bearable.’
    Patrick drew out the ritual of trimming his cigar and lighting it, sitting back in his chair and stretching his legs out in front of him. He blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Mick watched him, smiling indulgently until he said at last, ‘Did I know her?’
    â€˜ Her !’
    â€˜Him, then.’
    Patrick studied the tip of the cigar, a good, Havana cigar, the best that could be bought in Thorp. It was sweet and delicious. He poured himself some of the brandy used to fire the pudding, offering the bottle to Mick who shook his head. Taking a large sip Patrick said, ‘I think Hetty’s sweet on me.’
    Mick laughed. ‘Poor thing. Well, when she gets tired of barking up the wrong tree, send her home to me.’
    Patrick thought of Paul outside the church with his new wife. ‘Perhaps I should get married.’
    â€˜And perhaps I’ll grow new legs, but it wouldn’t be what you’d call natural, would it?’
    Patrick drained his glass and poured himself another. Knowing Mick was watching him he snapped, ‘I can get drunk, can’t I?’
    â€˜As long as you can stand to put me to bed later.’ Mick held his gaze and Patrick laughed drunkenly.
    â€˜Have I ever let you down? Ever? Remind me.’
    Mick drew on his cigar. ‘You’ve never let me down. Never. Not yet.’
    The room had become even warmer. If Patrick squinted the candle flames danced and the frozen faces of his family blurred into one. He had meant to burn the photos, along with the rest of his mother’s favoured possessions, but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to do it, his own superstitions surprising him. Getting up, he took his parents’ wedding photograph down, slamming it on the table in front of Mick.
    â€˜When I heard they were dead I