Who: Mr P, Coach B, Scotty What: Visting Pat's parents Where: A graveyard in Derry, Northern Ireland When: The afternoon of July 2 Rating: SFW, but might be triggery for some? idk.
It was a beautiful day. The sun was up, the birds were singing, and Pat had hardly slept a wink. Oh, he'd stayed in bed, lying very still so as not to wake Jack, but slept? Not enough to be worth counting. He'd set aside today for this little excursion, and, truth be told, he'd been dreading it since he'd realised he had to do it.
He'd left the hotel very early that morning, before Scotty or Jack were up, and come back with a little bouquet of flowers, which now hung limply from the hand which wasn't brushing Jack's. He'd have liked to hold onto Jack's hand properly for support as they walked to the Catholic church he'd spent years avoiding, but in this city, he didn't quite dare to be so open. So, instead, he walked close, fingertips brushing the back of Jack's hand, biting down on the inside of his cheek.
The graveyard was almost deserted, for which Pat was very grateful indeed. In the adjoining church tower, the bells struck ten. He closed his eyes a moment, then crossed the grass, moving slowly and hesitantly, the flowers still dangling from one hand.
The graves he was looking for stood together in the shade of one of the trees, on the other side of the graveyard. Somebody had draped an Irish flag over one of them, obscuring the name, but the other was perfectly legible. It said simply:
DEIDRE PEARSON 1930 - 1980
"I couldn't afford a better one," he said, and his voice sounded strange, even to him. He sighed, pushing his hair back with one hand, and looked at Scotty, then Jack. He'd paled a shade. "My own ma, and I couldn't afford a proper fucking gravestone." And, if the slightly choked tone wasn't enough to alert anyone to just how distressed he was, there was that fucking. Pat never swore.