ISSN 1758-6488
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Extract From A Novel-in-Progress Fiction |
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The old man sat, drank a slurp of his tea – two, three - and then, milder again, he said:
'Ye huvnae the measure a yer ain strength yet. But ye'll get that, Graham. Given time.'
He looked at his grandson, like he was sure of him, watching the calm return to him, and then:
'Ye'll forgive an old man his grief?'
And Graham nodded, because he did.
He lay down, on top of the duvet, next to Lindsey. He could see Eric's drawing still, in front of his eyes. Lindsey with her arms open wide. He felt that same mute fullness, not so angry this time, but sore just the same. Time was she'd have had her arms around him, and her legs. He'd not seen the change when it came, but here it was. Her on one side of the bed and him on the other. Graham lay there for the longest time and then he said:
'It looked jist like ye.'
Because the girl in the picture was lovely, and a very good likeness. It hurt him to remember, and the thought just fell from of his mouth, there where he lay, his head all heavy on the pillow, and there was some relief too, once it was out. Lindsey stirred a little. Graham thought she might turn over, but she didn't. After a while, she said:
'But not a bit like my Da.'
