confirm it’s just me and the giant Panda Ching Ching in the animals section. She was embalmed in 1985 and still looks better than me
Yep drawing a blank in Art, Design & Fashion, though tbf I doubt 18th century corsetry is my dad’s thing. See you outside
‘Feels strange not to have middle-class guilt at binning off the antiquities exhibition, doesn’t it,’ I say, as we clatter back on the bus, lower deck this time, as the weather looks threatening. ‘My dad would be appalled.’
At John Knox House, I get a nostalgic rush at the combination of the respectful-speed shuffling from room to room, and the musty, woodsy smell of the interiors. I’m disorientated not to have a worksheet to fill out on Protestant reformers of the sixteenth century afterwards. It’s only lacking the teacher asking if anyone needs to use the facilities before we get back on the bus and telling us we have fifteen minutes maximum in the gift shop. I’m almost tempted to buy a pot of unsharpened pencils and a rainbow rubber.
I sense Finlay’s mood plummeting further, each time we reboard the bus.
‘Is it worth prioritising things your dad would find particularly interesting?’ I ask. ‘Is he a devolution junkie, would he be interested in seeing the Scottish Parliament buildings? Or … the café where JK Rowling wrote Harry Potter?’
‘I honestly don’t know, it’s second-guessing someone I’m distant from, who is mentally ill,’ Fin says. ‘I think imposing old buildings are probably his taste.’
‘Stay on for Holyrood Palace, then?’
‘Yeah.’
Finlay can read me, but I can’t read him. Something’s bothering him and I can’t identify what it is. This was his idea. I’m here because he demanded I be here. Anyone watching would think it was the other way round.
We disembark at Holyrood and Finlay buys entrance tickets.
‘Christ,’ I say, surveying its colossal magnificence and general vast spread. ‘You take the west wing and I’ll take the east wing?’ I make a grit-teeth face.
There’s an ominous grumble of thunder and as the heavens open, correspondingly, Finlay’s mood breaks fully.
‘This is all we fucking need!’ he splutters, both of us holding the hoods of our coats in place as we dash for cover across the manicured lawns.
‘Let’s take shelter in the ruined abbey!’ I say. ‘It’s a little further but this is just the moment to appreciate it.’
‘How do you know about that?’ Fin says, and I’m quite chuffed with myself that I do.
‘Like a Goth, I always research evocative ruined abbeys.’
I lead us there at a jogging pace, and on arrival, Fin says: ‘Not to be a nitpicker, but the place you’ve brought us to has no roof.’
I start laughing in that slightly helpless way you do when the weather and circumstances are attacking you.
‘It has a beautiful façade though. Here, this part still has a roof.’
We huddle in an archway, watching the rain beat down on ancient mossy stonework, interiors that are now exteriors. We’ve stumbled into a peculiarly unforgettable few minutes.
‘Let’s just settle in for three hours of this then,’ Fin says, eventually.
‘I love it. Wish we’d brought a hot Thermos.’
When Ed called this a Very Creepy Interlude, he might’ve underrated how much I like creepy interludes.
‘How are you so perky? To the point of … revolting effervescence.’
Finlay says this unemotionally, in his usual crisp manner, face splattered with water. I get a squirm of pleasure in my stomach at this teasing, as I watch him yank his hood back down and try to pat the water out of his hair, which only spreads it around. He’d only dare be this familiar if he’s feeling comfortable around me.
‘Am I perky?’ I say.
‘Yup. Dragged against your will to another country, by a man you don’t know, to look for another man who’s not in his right mind. Being drenched in what looks like a Game of Thrones set. And it’s like you’ve been handed a Coco Loco at a swim-up bar.’
‘Sad is happy for deep people,’ I say, and I’m rewarded with authentic Finlay laughter. I realise I’m talking to him like he’s Susie, and somehow I don’t know if I’m doing it on purpose or not.
‘Is that original?’
‘No, I nicked it from Doctor Who.’
‘I don’t even know when you’re having me on.’
‘While we’re being personal, why are you being a mardy arse?’
‘A mardy arse?’ Finlay says, speaking the words as if smelling a stinky local delicacy cheese.
‘It means—’
‘I can remember,’ he says. ‘… Agh, it feels so futile and foolish. We’re a day behind him, if