Page 60 of Tribute Act

Not so, apparently.

I glanced at Mack, and he seemed so lost, so fucking alone. I wished I could comfort him. Instead I had to sit here, clenching my fists under the table, watching helplessly as he considered Rosie’s words.

“Just talk to him, Dylan,” Rosie begged. “Please.”

“Why should I?” he said bleakly. “He’s the one who fucked up.”

Rosie said, “I know. I’m not asking you to make the first move, only, not to leave yet. To give him a chance to sort this out.” She paused, then added, “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure you need this as much as he does. But I think you do, Dylan. I think this makes you really sad.”

Honestly, I didn’t know if I agreed with Rosie or not, but it was impossible to ignore her sheer force of belief. Was she right? Did Mack need to mend things with Derek, if only for his own peace of mind? He’d gone all these years without his dad, and it wasn’t as if over these last few months they’d grown any closer. Did he need Derek in his life at all? Was he just better off without him?

I watched Mack, trying to read him. He huffed out a long breath and scrubbed his hands over his face. When he finally looked up again, his expression was anguished.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I wouldn’t even know how to start the conversation. I’m no good with words.” He glanced at me, then away quickly, as though he hadn’t intended to do it, and my heart ached for him.

“Well,” Mum said slowly. “it doesn’t have to be a big, heavy thing. You don’t have to launch straight into talking about the past. Just arrange to spend a little time with him. Find some common ground. You’re both musicians after all—it shouldn’t be that hard.”

“Invite him to your gig on Saturday!” Rosie said excitedly. “Take Nathan—you can call it a—a boys’ night out.”

“What about me?” Mum said, indignantly. “I was planning on going.”

“You talk too much,” Rosie said, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. “They’ll never end up speaking to each other if you go.”

I couldn’t help chuckling at Mum’s offended expression. “Oi,” she said. “I’m not that bad.”

Rosie looked at Mack. “Will you do it?”

“I don’t know,” Mack said, but I could tell the fight had gone out of him. He was going to agree. And Rosie’s smile told me she knew it too.

Chorus

I’ll be hanging up my Christmas stocking

So, when Santa comes a-knocking

There will be a place for him

To put my Christmas presents in

But I don’t need no fancy parcels

I don’t want no bows or sparkles

All I want this Christmas Day

Is you telling me that you are gonna stay.

— “Christmas Stocking” by The Sandy Coves, 1989

December

Derek’s arrival at the Sea Bell on Saturday night was greeted with a barrage of friendly insults from the locals.

“What you doing ’ere?” Jago asked when we reached the bar. “You usually drink in the Eagle.”

“I’ve come to see my lad play, haven’t I?” Derek replied, jerking his head at the table where Mack—who’d come earlier—was already sitting with Don and the others, his usual pissy lager sitting in front of him.

Jago nodded at that. “Chip off the old block that one, I reckon.”