Bells

‘Granddad, come nearer to the fire’, she coaxes

I pretend not to hear and this vexes, I notice with not a little satisfaction.

‘Granddad, why do you sit out there, on your own?’

I smile at her and her lips compress, into a thin line…

‘You hear me well don’t you?’ a frown creases her creaseless forehead.

Yes, I do, you little madam but I’ll not give you the pleasure of speech.

‘You’re always staring out the window; what at?’ she comes over and tries to follow my line of sight.

I can see the graveyard, from here and the frost, sparkling on the marble; monuments to death.

‘Is it the sea, is that what you stare at all day?’ the frown deepens

She is her mother’s daughter, my daughter’s daughter; the eyes have it – they might be cloned.

‘Will you come to church with us, on Christmas eve?’ she enquires, keeping any potential reaction, in her peripheral vision.

I’ll not enter that building, until I am carried in – and out again – by six strong men…but I make no reply.

‘I am playing the bells this year, would you like to hear the bells Granddad?’

I have tinnitus, I hear little but fucking bells, all the time; she looks so hopeful.

‘Father Murphy, says that I am the best that he has ever seen…ever!’ reinforcing her claim.

Yes, but he’s a lying bastard! Though I do not speak, she reads something in my expression; it causes her [unplanned] pause.

‘You don’t have to pray, you know…not even silently, if you don’t want to. I would love you to be there, to hear me play…’

She looks at her hands, studiously admiring their over long fingers; piano player’s hands…like her mother; like my daughter’s.

‘Mummy, would be pleased, I know she would.’ She mumbles, playing her trump card.

I try to swallow, clear my suddenly constricted throat as waves crash behind my eyes, bearing surfers of grief and sadness.

Oh, look…a Robin red breast. On the branch of the old apple tree; do you see him?’

A long, impossibly thin, girlish arm rises to point at the ‘perch’. A web of delicate blue veins criss-cross the pale skin, like the fault lines in bone china. My blood courses there; mine! The wonder of it, fills me with….something; pride? Joy? Hope? Rare visitors these; missing, presumed dead!

‘If you can’t say you will go Granddad, will you at least not say you won’t? she folds her hands across her chest, head askance, beautiful eyes widened expectantly.

‘We’ll see!’ I manage. Her hands overlap on her face, beneath her eyes…

‘Yes! Oh, thanks Granddad, I knew you wouldn’t let me down….I’ll make you some tea, shall I?

She dances, through to the kitchen as I return my gaze, to the graveyard and hope, that she doesn’t return too quickly……