There was an invisible baton of failure her mother had passed down, and Nora had held it for a long time.
Maybe that was why she had given up on so many things. Because she had it written in her DNA that she had to fail.
Nora thought of this as the boat chugged through the Arctic waters and gulls – black-legged kittiwakes, according to Ingrid – flew overhead.
On both sides of her family there had been an unspoken belief that life was meant to fuck you over.
Nora’s dad, Geoff, had certainly lived a life that seemed to miss its target.
He had grown up with only a mother, as his dad had died of a heart attack when he was two, cruelly hiding somewhere behind his first memories.
Nora’s paternal grandmother had been born in rural Ireland but emigrated to England to become a school cleaner,
struggling to bring in enough money for food, let alone anything approaching fun.
Geoff had been bullied early on in life but had grown big and broad enough to easily put those bullies in their place.
He worked hard and proved good at football and the shot put and, in particular, rugby.
He played for the Bedford Blues youth team, becoming their best player,
and had a shot at the big time before a collateral ligament injury stopped him in his tracks.
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