She was a bit younger and in much better shape than the man. A good-looking fifty-year-oldwoman. But she had the same small slash of a mouth, and the same slightly squinty eyes as her brother, and her father, who followed her out of the kitchen with a bread knife in his hand.
‘Go on,’ Ken invited her. ‘Stick it in me. Right there, girl.’ He gestured at the crest on his blazer pocket. ‘Then you’ll all be happy.’
The son held up his hands. ‘Come on now, let’s all calm down,’ he said, and I could see that it was the daughter who shared her father’s temper.
Ken leaned against the television set for a breather. The woman was looking at me.
‘Tracey,’ her brother said, ‘this is Mr Silver, who brought Dad back from the hospital.’
She was shaking her head. ‘Please don’t tell me this is for him,’ she said, snatching the 500-gram pack from my hand. ‘Don’t tell me that.’
I felt a flare of resentment. ‘Well,’ I began.
‘He’s got cancer,’ she said, very slowly, as if English was not my first language. ‘Lung cancer. Caused by this stuff.’ She threw the pack back at me. It hit me on the chest but I caught it.
‘I know,’ I said.
‘What’s going on in there?’ Tracey Grimwood said. She tapped her temple with an impatient index finger. ‘Are you as stupid as he is? You give Old bloody Holborn to a man who is dying of lung cancer? What are you thinking?’
I took a breath.
‘I was thinking that it wouldn’t make much difference,’ I said, more calmly than I felt. I remembered my own parents giving up their Bogart-and-Bacall smoking fantasy before they died. And a lot of good it did them.
She threw up her hands and went into the kitchen, where I could see her putting the kettle on. Ken took the tobacco from me and winked.
‘Just go easy with it, Dad,’ Ian said, gazing anxiously at the kitchen.
‘A little of what you fancy does you good,’ Ken said, settlinghimself on the sofa. He expertly cracked open the 500-gram pack and began emptying the sachets into his battered tin, the kind you can only find on eBay. He turned towards the kitchen. ‘I deserve a few small pleasures.’
Tracey’s head appeared from the kitchen.
‘If you wanted pleasure, then you could have been a real grandfather to your grandchildren,’ she said. Then she looked at me. ‘Do you see any photos of my kids? Or Ian’s children?’
I looked up at the mantelpiece. There was the young boxer. And the three children in the faded colours of the sixties. And in the middle, the one of Ken Grimwood’s wedding day. I looked at it now. He wore his naval uniform and stood proudly in his bandy-legged gait, his shy bride almost covered by the waves of her white wedding dress.
Tracey came into the living room. ‘Beautiful grandchildren, he has,’ she said. ‘Beautiful, they are. Or were – they’re grown-ups themselves now. But did he ever take them to the park or read them a story? Did he ever do all the normal granddad things? No, he was too wrapped up in himself. Horses. And greyhounds. And gambling.’
Ken was frowning at his tobacco. ‘Punk rockers, they were,’ he said. ‘Punk rockers and skinheads.’
Tracey exploded. ‘That was years ago!’
‘I’ll make the tea,’ Ian said, scuttling off to the kitchen.
‘And Suzy was a Goth, not a punk rocker,’ Tracey said. ‘Now she’s married with a kid of her own. And does he show a blind bit of interest?’ She watched him unloading the sachets into his tin and sighed – a lifetime of frustration in one long breath. ‘And why are you here, Mr Silver? Apart from encouraging this silly old goat to smoke himself to death.’
I thought about it.
I didn’t know how to explain it.
‘He – Ken – was with my father,’ I said, and he didn’t look at me but I thought he was listening. ‘In the war, I mean. They fought together.’ I looked at her. ‘My dad was a Royal Naval Commando too,’ I said.
She nodded, calmer than I had
‘Go on,’ Ken invited her. ‘Stick it in me. Right there, girl.’ He gestured at the crest on his blazer pocket. ‘Then you’ll all be happy.’
The son held up his hands. ‘Come on now, let’s all calm down,’ he said, and I could see that it was the daughter who shared her father’s temper.
Ken leaned against the television set for a breather. The woman was looking at me.
‘Tracey,’ her brother said, ‘this is Mr Silver, who brought Dad back from the hospital.’
She was shaking her head. ‘Please don’t tell me this is for him,’ she said, snatching the 500-gram pack from my hand. ‘Don’t tell me that.’
I felt a flare of resentment. ‘Well,’ I began.
‘He’s got cancer,’ she said, very slowly, as if English was not my first language. ‘Lung cancer. Caused by this stuff.’ She threw the pack back at me. It hit me on the chest but I caught it.
‘I know,’ I said.
‘What’s going on in there?’ Tracey Grimwood said. She tapped her temple with an impatient index finger. ‘Are you as stupid as he is? You give Old bloody Holborn to a man who is dying of lung cancer? What are you thinking?’
I took a breath.
‘I was thinking that it wouldn’t make much difference,’ I said, more calmly than I felt. I remembered my own parents giving up their Bogart-and-Bacall smoking fantasy before they died. And a lot of good it did them.
She threw up her hands and went into the kitchen, where I could see her putting the kettle on. Ken took the tobacco from me and winked.
‘Just go easy with it, Dad,’ Ian said, gazing anxiously at the kitchen.
‘A little of what you fancy does you good,’ Ken said, settlinghimself on the sofa. He expertly cracked open the 500-gram pack and began emptying the sachets into his battered tin, the kind you can only find on eBay. He turned towards the kitchen. ‘I deserve a few small pleasures.’
Tracey’s head appeared from the kitchen.
‘If you wanted pleasure, then you could have been a real grandfather to your grandchildren,’ she said. Then she looked at me. ‘Do you see any photos of my kids? Or Ian’s children?’
I looked up at the mantelpiece. There was the young boxer. And the three children in the faded colours of the sixties. And in the middle, the one of Ken Grimwood’s wedding day. I looked at it now. He wore his naval uniform and stood proudly in his bandy-legged gait, his shy bride almost covered by the waves of her white wedding dress.
Tracey came into the living room. ‘Beautiful grandchildren, he has,’ she said. ‘Beautiful, they are. Or were – they’re grown-ups themselves now. But did he ever take them to the park or read them a story? Did he ever do all the normal granddad things? No, he was too wrapped up in himself. Horses. And greyhounds. And gambling.’
Ken was frowning at his tobacco. ‘Punk rockers, they were,’ he said. ‘Punk rockers and skinheads.’
Tracey exploded. ‘That was years ago!’
‘I’ll make the tea,’ Ian said, scuttling off to the kitchen.
‘And Suzy was a Goth, not a punk rocker,’ Tracey said. ‘Now she’s married with a kid of her own. And does he show a blind bit of interest?’ She watched him unloading the sachets into his tin and sighed – a lifetime of frustration in one long breath. ‘And why are you here, Mr Silver? Apart from encouraging this silly old goat to smoke himself to death.’
I thought about it.
I didn’t know how to explain it.
‘He – Ken – was with my father,’ I said, and he didn’t look at me but I thought he was listening. ‘In the war, I mean. They fought together.’ I looked at her. ‘My dad was a Royal Naval Commando too,’ I said.
She nodded, calmer than I had
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