“Thank you, Dad…goodbye.”
He nudged the gate, and it swung open without a soundwell-oiled hinges silent as the grave.
“Good old Arnold,” he muttered.
Of course, it had to be the neighbour. Who else would bother?
He crossed the yard, dropped his rucksack by the porch, and took one last slow walk around the placehis place. His fingers brushed the tarnished brass lock on the door.
The key
Arnold had one, but he couldnt face another conversation. Not now. Too tired.
Then he remembered. Reaching above the doorframe, his fingers caught on a frayed black cordthere it was. He slid the key in, turned it with a soft click, and pushed the door open.
The air inside smelled like homewoodsmoke, old books, a lifetime. His throat tightened. His heart hammered wildly against his ribs. Blood roared in his ears.
Blast it. The pillsstill in the rucksack.
Staggering back, he grabbed the bag, fumbled for the tiny white tablet, and let it dissolve under his tongue. The thunder in his chest slowed. The ringing faded. Only a dull ache remained.
He sat. Breathed.
Home.
“Whos there?” A voice called from the open doorway.
“Me, Bill”
“Edward? That you?”
“Yeah.”
“Whereve you been? Your Emily came by with some folkssaid you were in hospital, God knows what next.”
“Theyll be waiting a long time,” he chuckled weakly. “What folks?”
“City types. Emily kept showing em around. Reckon theyre buyers. Anyway, come over for supper. Marthas got a stew on.”
“Nah. Thanks for keeping an eye on things.”
“Dont be daft. Come on”
“Im home.”
Bill shrugged and left. As if hed go anywhere else. This was his house.
He sat by the window till dawn, watching the sun climb over the hedgerows. Stiffly, he rose, stretched, and wandered outsidechecking the shed, the woodpile, the garden. All tidy.
By midday, an engine growled. A car pulled up.
Emily? In a new motor?
Laughing strangers hauled out bags, suitcases. What? Emilyhow? Without telling him? Sold it?
“Oi! Whatre you doing here?”
“Moving in,” a boyfour, maybetilted his head. “We bought it.”
“Bought it? From who?” He slammed the door. They opened it again, complaining about a draft. Draft? The windows were shut!
“Ill call the police!” He tried barricading himself inside, but they forced their way in.
“Hinges need oiling,” one bloke said.
Emily. His own daughter. Couldnt wait.
“Grandad, will you live with us?”
“No. And you wont live here either!” He snatched old photo albumsEmilys childhood drawings. One caught his eye: a scribbled card for Armed Forces Day.
Now this? Selling his homehis and Margarets. Their Emilys.
Footsteps. Emily swept past, red coat flashing.
“Emilylove” He chased her. “Im here!”
“She cant hear you,” the boy said.
“What? You can.”
“They dont see you. They shout at me for pretending.”
“Ask herask if she sees me!”
The boy tugged Emilys sleeve. “Do you see Grandad?”
“What grandad?”
“Your dad. Hes here. Hes asking why you sold the house.”
Emily froze.
“Tell herremember when we flew to Spain? She screamed, seeing clouds from above?” The boy repeated it.
Emily paled.
“Or when the geese chased her? Or sitting under the apple tree, waiting for one to bonk her head like Newton? And that lad in Year SixTimmyshe kept thumping him till his mum came round”
“Dad?” Emily whispered. “Where is he?”
“Here.” The boy pointed. “He loves you. Hell always be near.”
The family watched, stunned. Women wept. Men wiped their eyes.
Emily sat on the bench, the boy beside her, whispering.
“Daughter,” the boy said softly, “I have to go.”
“Dad”
“Dont cry, my Em.”
The boys voice dropped. “Hes gone. But he said Lucys having a boy.”
“Lucy? Nothe scan said girl! Shes in labour now”
A phone rang. Emily answered.
“A boy? Butthey told us” She stared at the sky.
“Thank you Dad. Goodbye.”
