d’you mean?’
‘What I mean is, while I understand about Ruth and her bad ways, I can’t help but feel, in here,’ he thumped his chest, ‘that you’re deliberately holding summat back. Are yer?’
Again, Tom skirted the question as honestly as he could. ‘Dad! I’ve told you what happened,’ he said.
‘And that’s everything, is it?’
Tom forced a cynical little laugh. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘Mmm.’ The old man was still not altogether satisfied, but as he was dog-tired, anything else could wait until morning. ‘All right, son.’ He patted Tom on the shoulder. ‘I’m off to my bed now, and from the look of you I reckon you need to do the same.’ He was concerned at Tom’s appearance: the dark, hollow patches under his eyes, and that forsaken look that took away his smile. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. Good night, son. Don’t stay up too late, and remember, you and the boy are all right here with me. I’m well suited wi’ that.’
‘Good night then, Dad. Thanks.’
Still troubled, Bob went carefully up the narrow, winding staircase. At the top, he turned towards the bedroom where Casey was sleeping soundly.
For a while, he stood by the bed, looking tenderly down on that strong little face. Well, lad, it sounds like you and yer father have had a real bad time of it, he thought. ‘But thank God, you’re safe now, and while I’m ’ere to watch over yer, you’ll come to no harm. I don’t know what he’s hiding, but I’m not such an old fool I don’t know when my own son is troubled.’
Looking on the boy again, Bob’s face wreathed in a smile.
Mind you, I’m old and addled, and I could be imagining things. I mean, I’ve been wrong afore, an’ who’s to say I’m not wrong now? Not to worry, eh, lad? The truth is, we all need a good night’s sleep. Things will likely look a whole lot better in the morning.
Leaning down, he gently kissed the boy’s forehead. ‘You’ve no need to fret about the guitar, lad,’ he whispered, ‘because your old gramp will get it fixed. You’ll see, one way or another, you’ll be playing like a good ’un in no time at all.’
He gazed fondly on the boy a moment longer, then he went softly to the door, where he gave a last look back before ambling on to his own bedroom.
Walking carefully to avoid the creaking boards on the landing, he heard the clock strike the eleventh hour, and the downstairs radio playing soft music.
‘Go to bed, son,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Today was a bad ’un, but tomorrow is a new day altogether.’
With that thought in mind he went to his bed hoping that, when tomorrow came, his son might be more able to confide in his old dad.
Downstairs in the back parlour, Tom sat at the small table.
With his eyes closed and the palms of his hands covering his head, he made no attempt to wipe away the tears that ran freely down his face.
Instead, he searched his mind for a way out; a way that would cause the least distress; a way that might allow them to forgive him.
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