‘Yeah. It is a bit chilly in here.’ A taster of the icy reception he was expecting? Griff pushed the door shut and offered to take Imogen’s coat. She declined.
‘I need to acclimatise first.’ She ran her fingers along the top of the radiator situated beneath the coat hooks. ‘He’s not got the heating on. I trust he’s okay.’
The same thought occurred to Griff and all his other concerns fell away. ‘Dad?’ he tried again. ‘I’ve brought someone to see you.’
Still no reply. He puffed out his cheeks, gave a half-shrug and opened the door to the living room. Logan was sitting crumpled and hunched in a green chair, his withered frame half the size Griff remembered. The chair and the television were different, too; both items Logan would have once asked Griff to research before committing to buying. The uneasy sensation of redundancy swept over Griff. First Evie, now his father, proving they could manage without Griff in their lives.
‘Pack it in, Hendry,’ he said to himself. Being in control of your destiny is a good thing. It was how he lived his life. Besides, he and his father hadn’t been close for years. Although, that was Griff’s call.
‘I suppose Evie’s told you, then,’ Logan said.
‘Told me?’ Without waiting to be invited, Griff opened the door to its fullest extent, and crossed the threshold. ‘She didn’t have to tell me, Dad. I remember when your birthday is.’ He took a seat on the sofa. ‘Happy birthday. I thought I could take you out for a beer to celebrate. How are you?’
‘I wasn’t talking about my birthday, and if you wanted a truthful answer to your question you’d have been to see me a long time ago.’
Logan raised a shaky, insubstantial hand, infirm and exposed, but it possessed the strength to send a powerful shock straight to Griff’s stomach. He’d openly accused Evie of letting Logan take advantage of her kind nature, positive his father was fitter and healthier than he let on. The last time Griff had seen him, Logan was stronger, but that was not the same man seated in the new green chair.
Griff swallowed away the lump forming in his throat and breathed away the gathering mist of guilt. ‘Not so good, then.’ Aware Imogen had entered the room, Griff signalled for her to join him on the sofa. He didn’t often need moral support, but having her there was a comfort. Safety in numbers, he thought.
‘Do you remember Imogen Joliffe – Kieran’s sister? We bumped into each other a few weeks ago.’ He waited for Logan’s acknowledgement.
‘Of course I do. Is this she?’
Imogen rose from the sofa, used Griff’s shoulder for support as she stepped over his feet, and crouched at the side of Logan’s chair. ‘Happy birthday, Mr Hendry. You haven’t changed a bit.’ She took his hand and kissed the back of it. ‘It’s wonderful to see you after all this time.’
‘That’s what I should be saying to my errant son over there.’ Logan greeted Imogen’s kiss with a weak smile. ‘I’d like to say you’ve not changed a bit, but it’s good to see you out of those wretched dungarees.’ As the smile grew, it appeared to strengthen Logan’s spine. He wriggled back in his chair and lifted his head. ‘I see you still like red, though.’
Imogen had defused the bomb Griff was certain his father was ready to deploy.
Now able to relax, he pointed to the huge screen suspended on the wall next to the understairs cupboard. ‘New TV? What is it? Sixty, seventy inch? I’ve been to smaller cinemas.’
It was meant as a joke.
‘I don’t get out much,’ said Logan. ‘I don’t have visitors, other than Evie and Tess. I can’t hold a decent sized book, and I can’t get outside to tend to my garden. So what if I have a big TV? I’d say it’s my one pleasure in life, but it would be a lie. There are no pleasures in my life. If it wasn’t for your wife and daughter, I’d go days without seeing another human. And the TV is six months old.’
Griff flinched as the accusations hit him. He could give any number of reasons as to why he hadn’t visited, but it was obvious Logan was in no mood to hear them. Nice to know his father’s mind wasn’t failing him. Griff put his hands together and sat on the edge of his seat. He’d start with an apology – perhaps that would pave the way to a full and frank discussion whereby he could explain his actions and tell Logan about the separation from Evie. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I should’ve come to see you more often. I should have made an effort to sort out our differences.’
‘Six years is a long time to hold a grudge.’ Logan worked his hand free from Imogen. ‘Would you put the kettle on, please, Imy? I’ve not had anything to drink since Evie was here at breakfast. I think she said there’s chocolate powder in the cupboard if you fancy that. It’s what a slip of a girl like you needs on a day like this. I’ll have a decaf.’
‘Imy.’ Imogen laughed as she stood. ‘I haven’t been called that in a very long time, Mr Hendry.’
‘You don’t mind, do you? And please call me Logan. We’re all adults now.’
Griff pointed the way to the kitchen and looked on as Imogen vanished around the corner.
‘I’m not holding a grudge,’ he said, once he and Logan were alone. ‘And I’ve seen plenty of you in those six years. You were at my wedding, Dad. You’ve met Dylan. You’ve been over for Sunday lunches. You make it sound like I walked away and left you to get on with it.’ He detected a slight movement of Logan’s shoulders, and matched with the resentment in his father’s eyes, it was evident Logan didn’t agree. ‘I’m not holding a grudge.’
‘So you keep saying.’ Logan lowered the footrest of his chair, and inch by inch, twisted his body round to face Griff. ‘I did the right thing by your mother. She asked for my support and I gave it. She believed in quality, not quantity, and at the time we discussed withdrawing her treatment, she had neither. She was already a terminal patient. She had already lost her dignity in life, and I thought it right she wanted dignity in dying. She deserved it. You have no idea how hard it is to accept help, to allow people to see you at your worst, to wait to be taken to the toilet, to clean up your mess. You’re strong and healthy, and you have control over your life. You rely on no one but yourself, and I pray you always will, because this …’ He waved his trembling hand around the room. ‘… no matter what others do for you, is not living. This is barely even surviving.’
His father’s words challenged Griff. He dragged his hand over his chin. He’d heard all of this six years ago and hadn’t accepted it then. Everything and everyone was worth saving.
He’d argued at the time that a cure could be found at any given moment, that medical advances were being made in leaps and bounds, that one more treatment could be enough to change the prognosis. He’d fought for his mother’s life with as much belief and as much passion as Logan had fought for her release. Griff had understood it was Marilyn’s choice, but he had a child’s faith in his dad to do the right thing – to encourage Marilyn to live, to keep fighting; to let her know she was wanted. But Logan gave up and gave in, and that was the bitterest pill Griff had ever swallowed. Logan was not the man of Griff’s youthful ideals.
The day his mother died, Griff grieved for the loss of both his parents.
He’d learned to love his father differently since then.
‘How do you take your coffee, Logan?’ Imogen’s voice drifted into the living room.
‘I’ll come and do it.’ Glad of a reason to create breathing space between him and his father, Griff jumped up from the sofa and joined Imogen in the kitchen.
She leaned against the counter. ‘What did Logan mean about you holding a grudge?’
‘Not now.’ Eager to hide his shame, Griff opened the fridge and ducked behind its door. ‘I can’t get over how Dad’s deteriorated so quickly. I thought he was putting on Evie, but she really has her work cut out.’ He removed the milk carton, stood it next to the kettle, and elbowed shut the fridge door.
A gentle hand was laid on his forearm.
‘Hasn’t she said anything?’
Squeezing his eyes shut, Gr
iff tried to recall the last few conversations he’d had with his wife. When he next looked at Imogen, she was pouring hot water into three mugs. ‘Dad takes his white without sugar, like me.’
‘I take it black with one sugar.’ Logan’s order was received loud and clear.
‘He’s making a point,’ Griff said. ‘Proving to me things have changed and I know nothing about them. Make sure you top his cup right up.’ He collected a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer, added sugar from a nearby jar, and stirred the coffee until he could no longer feel the sweet grit. ‘I wonder if this is why Evie wanted me to visit.’ He chucked the spoon into the sink and it landed with a clatter. ‘Why didn’t she just tell me? She knows I like directness.’
‘And you could have taken some of the pressure off her,’ Imogen supplied.
‘I’d already suggested full-time carers. Admittedly, it was more for my sake than Evie’s, but she vetoed it anyway. Wanted to do it all herself. I started to believe she came here to avoid thrashing things out with me, but once we separated … Well … I don’t know.’ He stared through the window, not really acknowledging there was a magpie on the garage roof, but registering its plumage. ‘Not everything is black and white, is it?’ He nudged Imogen’s hot chocolate towards her, and picked up his and Logan’s drinks. ‘Except our coffees, apparently.’
With Imogen taking the lead, the pair returned to the living room.
‘Coffee. Black. One sugar.’ Griff attempted to hand Logan the mug, but he was dismissed with a shake of the head.
‘It’s too full.’
‘I thought you liked it to the brim.’ On the occasions Griff had made drinks for his father, he’d been sent back to the kitchen to add more water. ‘I was saving you the trouble of joking about the vicar coming to tea. That was the phrase, wasn’t it?’ Griff smiled, trying to lighten a situation that had rapidly gained weight. He glanced at Imogen. ‘I think it was in reference to the empty centimetre around the rim looking like a vicar’s collar.’ Returning to Logan, he said, ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
Logan mumbled a few unintelligible words into his chest and then lifted his chin. ‘It’s too full. I’ll spill it.’
Had Evie told Griff his father was unable to hold a full cup he’d have probably dismissed it as another of Logan’s attention seeking tactics. He’d have asked Evie to help his father by letting him help himself, and to believe she would still be loved if sometimes she said no. A day ago – Jeez – an hour ago, the inability to hold a full cup would have seemed such an inconsequential problem, but now …
‘I’ll deal with it.’ Imogen rescued the mug from Griff, and left the room.
Griff collapsed onto the sofa, immediately fighting with the cushion he’d squashed. He yanked it out from behind his back and threw it into the chair opposite. ‘Stupid thing.’ His remark was aimed at the cushion, but meant for himself. If he’d had the courage to face his fears, his and Logan’s differences would have been sorted years ago, and this moment, now, wouldn’t have been a shock to Griff.
For the second time in his life, he had to adjust his perception of his father.
This once powerful man was reduced to a twig, with liver spots dotting his arms, red veins mapping his eyes, and bony fingers barely capable of lifting a glass. In what? Six, nine months? This man’s hands were capable of saving lives; of using and manipulating precision equipment; of caring for Marilyn at her very worst; of grasping Griff’s palm and congratulating him on the birth of his child. The one photo Griff had of Logan holding Dylan was most likely the last. Imagine never being able to hold your grandchild. Imagine … No. Griff’s thoughts were getting out of hand. Control was required. Calm, efficient, orderly control.
‘How do you manage when Evie’s not here?’ It was the right place to start. Assess the current status and move on from there.
‘I stay put. I watch TV. My big TV. Until Evie arrives.’
Griff risked a glimpse of his father. ‘What about eating and drinking?’
‘I wait for Evie.’
‘And the toilet?’
‘Unless I’m desperate, I wait for Evie.’
With every answer ending in his wife’s name, Griff’s methodical approach was swiftly sabotaged. His mind filled with pictures of the times he thought Evie was running away; with the hours he’d wasted thinking she’d rather be at Logan’s than with him; with all the quiet pleas he’d ignored about visiting his dad; with all the guilt that false accusation, doubt and assumption dispensed.
The juggernaut of emotions jack-knifed, and a convoy of questions backed up in Griff’s head, each one shunting into the last. It was a car crash of whats, whys and whens, with piercing screams for help, and alerts and alarms he’d failed to heed. And it made his brow throb.
He massaged his temples with his thumbs. It was a futile attempt to soothe the pain. A temporary fix was not the solution. Healing required time and understanding. He straightened his posture. ‘How did things get so difficult so quickly?’
‘It only seems that way to you because you’ve been living life in the fast lane.’
The lane that’s jammed up with questions, Griff thought. ‘So, how long?’
Without interrupting the conversation, Imogen appeared and placed Logan’s coffee in his hands, soundlessly slipping past the green chair to sit next to Griff.
‘I had a flare-up just after Dylan was born. It was downhill from then on.’ Logan targeted his attention on the mug.
‘But we’ve met since then.’ Griff accepted he hadn’t been the most attentive son in recent years, but he was certain he’d seen Logan every few months. ‘You weren’t like this last time.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well … Disabled.’ The word sat awkwardly on Griff’s tongue.
Logan let out a strangled grunt. ‘I’ve been disabled since your mother died.’
A considerable silence filled the room as Logan managed a sip of his drink. ‘Thank you, Imy,’ he said, resting the mug on his lap. ‘It’s a good temperature. You added cold water?’
‘Just a drop or two, to take the edge off.’
‘You’re a thoughtful girl.’ Using one hand to support the bottom, and the other to pinch at the handle, Logan lifted the mug to his mouth again, and drank until he declared the coffee gone. ‘Is your cooking as good as your brewing skills?’
‘I pride myself on the fact I’ve never killed anyone with my food, either by throwing it at them or them eating it.’ Imogen laughed. ‘That’s as good as it gets. I take it you were thirsty.’
Logan motioned towards an empty glass on the small table beside his chair. ‘I finished that straight after Evie left this morning. She won’t be here for another hour.’
‘You could do with a fridge in here,’ Imogen said. ‘Your own mini bar.’
‘Now you’re talking.’ Logan’s face broke from its grimace. ‘Evie’s never suggested that.’
Griff observed the interaction with interest, thinking how now was not the time for humour, but as his father’s face creased into a smile, he was forced to revise his opinion. It was good to see a glimmer of happiness in Logan’s eyes.
Relaxing and reclining, Griff gave Imogen the floor. Her performance was greater than his by far.
‘Logan,’ she said. ‘A smile. How lovely. I can see you’ve not lost any of those handsome Highland features. You always had a smile on your face. It’s how I picture you in my mind’s eye.’
‘You still think about me?’ Logan’s frown made a reappearance, but it was softened with puzzlement. ‘Why?’
Imogen’s head tilted as she threaded her fingers together and raised her hands to her mouth. A thoughtful pose, Griff decided.
It was a moment before she spoke.
‘You were close to my dad.’
It was a simple enough statement, presented in an uncomplicated manner, yet it was packed with complex and volatile matter. Griff inched closer to his father, and braced himself, aware of the potential explosion.
Caught somewhere between expecting him to be dead and hoping he was alive, Imogen was yet to grieve for her dad. Years of zero contact had left her in a permanent state of limbo where he was concerned. She told Griff that the moment she laid eyes on her father, she’d hug and throttle him with equal pressure, whether he was on this plane or had transcended or descended to another world.
She’d laughed at the reference to hell, and then, releasing what must have been years of stress, worry and upset, she’d thrown herself at Griff, pressed her face to his chest, and dug her nails into his shoulders. With every convulsion she issued a great, heaving sob that made Griff’s heart pump harder and faster. It reminded him of how Evie described the effect Dylan’s crying had on her; how he felt when a shout went out at work.
It was a call to action.
His response was to offer Imogen brotherly comfort, a steadying arm, and time for the scenario to play out.
He hadn’t expected the kiss. Imogen said it was a simple thank you for him being so kind, but when he suggested a peck to the cheek would have been enough, she dabbed his lips with her fingertips and made no further comment. He chose to believe her. To over-think it and give it significance was dangerous. He wasn’t looking for anything from her other than forgiveness and friendship.
The next day he’d taken his jacket to the dry cleaner’s to have the tear and mucus stains removed. Handing it over to the shop assistant proved difficult. It felt like betrayal, as if Griff was wiping out all traces of Imogen’s pain. Pain for which he was responsible.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Logan’s timely question to Imogen put Griff back in the room, preventing him from delving any deeper into the complexities of betrayal. As if sensing his apprehension, Imogen patted his knee, and laid her hand to rest.
‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. ‘I’m in a much better place than before.’
‘What did you say?’ Logan leaned forward. ‘I couldn’t hear you.’
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