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‘She was a bit of an odd one, shall we say. A tad overweight, awkward in company. She started hanging around the museum that first summer – four years ago now. She’d sit at the side of the yard, watch the bikes coming and going, then ask me about what I had on display.’
‘That pleased her brothers, right?’
‘Aye, you can imagine. I’d tell her to get away home, but she’d be back, wanting to help. It seemed better to give her a few odd jobs than have her lolling about drawing attention. And she had this way of getting on with things, no’ saying a lot, no’ being in my way…?’ He leans forwards, elbows on thighs, chin in his hand.
‘How old was she?’ I have to ask. Though I’m not sure I want to know.
‘Seventeen.’ He raises his eyes to level with mine.
‘Right.’ I flinch at the thought of it.
‘You’re thinking it’s no’ right, a man my age. And I tell you I’m no’ proud of what happened.’
‘Go on then.’
‘Well, I closed the museum out of season, but I still had a lot to do. Ruthie kept coming when she was supposed to be at college. She took on some of the display work, she had a knack for that. We were two odd bods who let each other be. That’s all there was to it for a while.’
I look out to the dull gleam of the sea. Yeah, I can see the attraction for a misfit teenager. Don’s gruffness could lull her into feeling safe. However…
‘You’ll find it hard to believe a lassie like that would take an interest in me.’ Like he reads my next thought.
I pull back. Nowt to say.
‘Buggered if I know why.’ He pulls a tight smile. ‘It was nothing I’d planned. She was helping me with the manikins, in the sidecar display?’
I nod.
‘Her idea, them manikins, she put a lot of work in getting the right clothes and everything. One night we were working flat out for the Easter opening, and this massive storm blew a section of the roof off. We were out there with the ladders, battling to fix it down – got soaked right through. I invited her into the caravan to dry off.’
‘Of course, you did.’
He frowns. ‘I had no idea of touching her. I lit the stove and got the whisky out and we had a good crack about what the manikins might be up to. I can see her now, sitting in my old shirt, her awkward way of moving, and I saw how bonny she was for the first time.’ He scowls up at me. Like he realises he’s opened up too far.
‘So, there was nowt for it but to take her to bed?’
‘You can see it how you like, it was never my intention, and that was the only time.’ He pulls his arms over his chest, closing up.
Think about the blokes I’ve slept with. Apart from Stan, who was more like a friend. All the rest being right dodgy geezers, employers trying it on, one-night stands. It’s the age difference that gets me with Don’s story. What about Ken and Alice, then? Assume she was a lot younger, right? Just the once with them as well, according to Ken. How was that so different? But the main question is what the heck any of this has to do with Gethin? Another stomach lurch thinking about what might be happening with him now.
‘I’m not judging,’ I start, busting to get to the point. ‘Just trying to understand, right?’
‘You’ll be the first in that case.’
‘Why, what happened?’ Force my impatience down.
‘Didn’t see her for ages after that. I blamed myself, felt foolish, you know? Come the summer there were reports of Ruthie hanging out on the beach with some of the bikers. I told myself to forget about her…?’ He sighs, rubs his chin, stays silent for a minute.
‘You must have missed her, right?’ I suggest.
‘The next thing was I came back one night to a brick through the window, tyres slashed on my bike and PAEDO in red paint on the museum wall.’
‘What the fuck?’
‘I heard from Robbie, my pal from the pub, that Ruthie’s brothers had been saying that I’d got Ruthie pregnant and they were going to do me.’
‘So, what, you just painted it out and carried on?’
‘More or less. Except everyone wants to get involved, don’t they? Next thing, up trots Laura from the Heritage Centre: she was helping me with my funding returns and used that as an excuse to come nosing about. Tells me Ruthie’s not saying who the father is, but everyone thinks it’s me. I told her where to stick it.’ He leans forwards on clenched fists. Quiet confession hardened into pure anger.
