Before he died, my father
would sometimes take us with him to his local, where we’d sit staring quietly
at the flames. Joe was with foster
parents at the time, having been abandoned as a baby, and he loved my father
dearly. I knew that my father, though a
man of few words and even fewer overt emotions, had a soft spot for Joe. An intensely practical man, he owned a small
boat engine repair business in Stokesby.
He was trustworthy and honest, so did good trade. Joe and I often helped him over weekends in
return for some pocket money, and through this we grew to share my father’s
wonder of mechanics.
“Are you going to take the
charity gig then, lover boy?” said Joe, interrupting my reverie.
“I think so,” I reply,
ignoring the jibe. “Just to try it out, mind you. It all feels a bit sudden.”
“At our age there isn’t time
to be measured,” he says. “Go for it, Aaron.”
I smile, knowing I will, and
that my hesitation is fooling no one. I
am clearly smitten by the little Elsbeth, and spending more time in her
presence is a no brainer. I have been
alone for too long.
The bell rings for last orders
but we drink up and head our separate ways.
It’s raining heavily so I walk home as quickly as the old knee will let
me. A group of hooded youths loiter
around the entrance to my block of flats, talking in low tones, but they step
aside to let me through. I am filled
with an unfamiliar fear, but try not to show it, passing by without
speaking. As I walk up the stairwell I
hear them laugh out loud and am filled with anger at my timidity. Old age is a cruel business.
At my flat, I find Harry
curled up outside my door. When he sees
me, he comes to nuzzle my legs. I reach
down to scratch him behind his ears.
“Hello, fella, nice to see you.”
We enter the flat together, and I give him a saucer of milk before I
head off to bed. Soon I am sleeping, and my
dreams are filled with piles of endless junk that need sorting out, hooded
figures lurking in the dark, and memories of long ago.
