Not Today

The trenchcoat hung long over Sam’s arms, falling close to his fingertips and trailing close to his ankles. Otherwise, it was tight on his person, making him look barrel-chested in spite of his slight build. He was quietly grateful for the layers as he stood on the cliffs alone with the nippy wind snapping at his face.

He had been coming there to that same spot nearly every week for almost a year. He would pack an overnight bag and drive from his home on Sandfield Park in Ennis, all the way down to the Moher Cliffs. On reaching, he would park his car out on the grass, walk over near the rock and stare out at the sky unmarred by any false light, where he could see every star and constellation and feel the clean, cold wind rush through his lungs and fill him with that strange euphoria that it had brought him all his life.  He would spend the night gazing at the sky and the day standing on the cliff, staring out at the sea and stone towers. And every time, he would pack his things and go back home with the same refrain in his mind.

Not today.

He cursed his fears that clashed so strongly with his desires, leaving him in a constant state of conflict. The wind blew circles around him, clasping him and releasing him in loving embraces, pulling him closer and closer to the edge. It sang in his ears and in his heart, calling to him to just let go and feel, feel like he was born to for once in his life.

Thirty years you have held back, the wind would whisper to him. Now just let go.

But he never did.

He always made it to the very edge, his shoes teetering half off the brink, when he would pause. He would think of his mother who loved him, but smiled at him like he was a wild animal rearing to bite; his father who enlisted multiple private doctors, none of whom had been able to cure him. He would remember his sister, who cared for him, but preferred to keep her own family away. He had enough friends to count on one hand and a girl whom he loved with all his heart. She thought it odd, but strangely endearing that he wore heavy coats all the time.

But today, it was different.

His mother had cried. His father had bellowed. His sister had walked away. His friends had forgotten him.

And Anise was getting married.

Monster. Freak. Not my son. I have no brother. Goodbye, Sam.

He raised his eyes to the pale heavens, feeling the sky’s song well up heavy in his heart. The world would not hold him back. Not today, not ever again. For once in his life, he needed to be real.

He undid the belt of his trenchcoat and shrugged it off his person, letting it fall to the grass. Methodically, he popped the buttons of his oxford shirt and peeled it off his shoulders, leaving his thin torso naked to the cold wind. From his back, a pair of bronze wings unfurled and glistened in the light like twin suns. Their tips rose high above his head, the muscles in them stretching from their constant bondage, basking in their freedom. The wind’s song grew louder, rustling through his feathers and beckoning him.

      Come to us, it called. Fly with us. We will love you as you should be loved. As you should always be loved.

      Sam listened. And Sam jumped.

After Effects of Mint Ice Cream

Every person has their foibles. Weird little idiosyncrasies and mad addictions that have no basic explanation besides the general tendency for weirdness that is human nature. In my case, one of those odd little addictions is mint.

Honest to the Gods, I love it. Mint tea, mint paratha, mint rice, mint chutney, mint chocolate, mint ice cream, mint cakes, mint mints, you name it. The lot. The works.

It kind of went a bit overboard today. I has three scoops of mint ice cream from the local Ibaco with an armload of topping that I'm not proud of and promptly went into an insane sugar high. Oh, and after having a mug of coffee.

Really. Went nuts. Uncontrollably nuts. I was practically bouncing off the walls; too much energy. I was watching the Avengers and cheering like a madcap at every damn scene. Much of it went along the lines of, "LOKI IS OUR KING, SO KNEEL, BITCHES!!", punctuated with "ROOAAAARRR!!" whenever the Hulk came on and general woots for Monsieur Brilliant Tony Stark. Can't blame me. It's just raw, unadulterated awesomeness and badassery.

Yep. Shit just got real. 

 You know, I know the Tony Stark is supposed to be the funny of the movie, but personally, I find Thor remarkably hilarious. Honestly, have you heard the bloke talk? It's like he takes his dialogues out of a Camelot movie and puts them in in Capslock.

THOR: Have a care how you speak! Loki is beyond reason, but he is of Asgard and he is my brother!
BLACK WIDOW: He killed eighty people in two days. 
THOR: He's adopted.

Not to mention the hair and the hammer. The pinning under the hammer thing was just too funny.

Anyhoo, Avengers aside. I've calmed down a bit, now that the movie's over, I ran around the block a few times, did a number of jumping jacks, did a couple of rounds of impromptu drunk giraffe dances, had a few Matt Smith moments during my twinkle-toes sequences, freaked out my neighbor by perching myself atop the high garden wall and sang a slew of French songs along with 'Hey Jude' in the shower.

Now, to breathe. Hehhhhhhh-hoooooooooooooo.

The Dragon's Mistress

Rush Gladwell was a man of patience, a trait that he had had to develop a long time ago. He had gone through a difficult childhood as the son and eldest child of a Glaswegian shipyard worker, having to work two jobs to put himself and his two sisters through school, while his father drank most of his earnings away. It ended for naught when he ended up the sole survivor of a road accident that took his family and left him with a permanent limp in his right leg. He had earned enough money to move to America, get into Yale Law on scholarship and establish a life and career. He had gone through a divorce made messy by a woman who had loved his money and had even raised his son on his own, keeping custody at a hefty price, all while maintaining his earned repute as the most sought after district attorney in the state. Lydia had never loved him; she had not hesitated to throw that information in his face, even while using their son as leverage to get as much money out of the divorce from him as she could. 

Rush had sustained all of these with an inscrutable face and a small smile, exercising his patience to its greatest extent while keeping his temper in check. His son had taken a long time to warm up to his father, unable to understand why his mother was thrusting him into the arms of a stranger who felt so different. Rush had kept his anger at Lydia or anyone else tightly chained; his beautiful boy needed no reason to fear him.

And he was indeed, a lovely boy. He had taken more to Lydia in his features, his only physical quality echoing his father’s being his dark eyes. However, as he grew, Rush had found a number of his lesser known traits in the boy, filling him with glowing pride: his wry wit, his tolerance for changes, his love for learning. He had even picked up a light accent in his speech, not as strong as his father’s, but still enough to be perceptible. Rush also saw the differences between them just as starkly as he saw the similarities, for which he was quietly grateful. His Balfour needed none of the darkness that his father had; he did not need to follow in his father’s reputation for being hard, ruthless and unforgiving, all cold smiles and lightly-spoken threats.

That reputation will protect him. Any repute that Rush Gladwell gathered for himself was for Balfour. If he was powerful enough, nothing could take his boy from him like Lydia had tried to.

That reputation, however, would have been questioned by anyone who could see him at that moment. Rush was a picture of immaculate neatness: wearing his black Armani like it was armor, greying hair falling precisely to his shoulders, shoes pristine, silver ring gleaming on the fingers holding his cane. Said fingers were currently tapping an unconscious rhythm as he glanced out the window for the fifth time, a muscle jumping anxiously in his jaw.

Balfour was out playing soccer with his friends Henry Swann, Gerold Wood, Alexa Cinder and Paige Jefferson. They were good children and frequented the house to meet up for study work; any other pursuits were often taken elsewhere. Rush was also familiar enough with their families to trust them with his son and he had unspoken leverage over them should anything happen to him. So he stood alone in his living room, limping between his couch and the window like a caged beast, frequently peeking out and checking the Rolex on his wrist.

Five years. It’s been five years. Is that enough time for a person to be forgiven?

A knock shook him out of his thoughts and he stilled, his finger frozen mid-tap. The knock was a smart and confident tattoo on his door, unlike the demure taps he remembered from so long ago. He limped to the door and opened it with trepidation. The vision before him made him catch his breath.

She hadn’t changed as much as he had feared she had. Russet hair spilled over her shoulders, framing the lovely face that he recalled with fondness and regret. She even still wore blue, albeit in a light cardigan and a tea dress instead of the t shirts, skirts and old jeans he recalled her in. But she was also so different. Her hair was longer, falling in loose curls over her shoulders rather than tossed up in a rough ponytail. Her frame was slimmer like she had lost weight, though not in an unhealthy way. But what struck him most was how she held herself much taller than she had when he had first known her.

Then a girl, now a woman.

She smiled, the expression stretching across her face, lighting it up like sunshine. “Hello, Mr. Gladwell,” she said, her Australian twang so contrasting to his thick Scottish brogue.

He blinked, realizing that he was standing in his doorway, openly staring at her. “Good day, Miss Forrest,” he said, keeping his tone pleasant and formal as he stepped aside to let her in. He noticed her glancing around as she followed him into the living room.

“It’s not so different,” he remarked, his mouth curving in a half-smile.

The old her would have blushed and stammered a reply, but she was changed, older. “No, it isn’t,” she agreed. “I thought it may have changed.”

“A bit here and there,” he replied casually. “New pictures in the frames, a soccer trophy or two, different curtains, but otherwise the same old place, lair of the dragon and his boy.”

She grinned, her eyes twinkling in the same mischievous manner in which they used to whenever he ordered a cup of Earl Grey and she added a spoon of honey just the way he liked it without him asking.

“They still call you the dragon here?”

“Old reputations die hard.” She rolled her eyes good-naturedly to which Rush merely smiled. But you were never afraid, shy maybe, but never afraid.

“It is good to see you again, Mr. Gladwell,” she said, sitting down on the loveseat.

“And you, Miss Forrest,” he replied sincerely, settling on the sofa opposite to her and propping his cane on the armrest. He gestured to the arrangement on the coffee table. “Tea?” he offered.

Her smile was knowing. “You’re testing me,” she remarked.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She laughed and pulled the tea arrangement towards herself. “Allow me.”

“By all means,” he replied, gesturing in a grand flourish. Rush watched silently, trying to mask the fondness creeping across his features. She poured the steaming tea into two china cups, expertly stirring in the correct amounts of milk and sugar into the concoction. A grin twisted across his lips when she squeezed exactly two drops of lemon into one cup and added half a spoon of honey into the other. She handed him his cup with a proud smile, which widened when he took a long sip and sighed in satisfaction.

“A masterpiece, just as always,” he complimented.

“Old reputations die hard,” she echoed him teasingly. “How is Balfour?” she asked.

“He’s doing well,” replied Rush, taking another sip. “He’s fourteen years old now, still a smart-mouthed troublemaker.”

“Still half a genius, then?” she asked cheekily. “The only boy in his class who knew the name of every star in the sky?”

“The astronomy phase passed. Now, it’s mechanics. He’s taken to taking things apart to figure out how they work.”

“That’s a wonderful hobby.”

“A wonderful hobby until he forgets how to put it back together.”

“How is he doing in his classes?” she asked.

“Wonderfully, top in his grade in everything except his English lessons. He can solve equations, write basic programs and take the telly apart, but try and get him to read Hamlet, he’s obstinate enough to be near failing his classes.”

“Did you ask him why?”

“He says that learning Shakespeare and reading about dead poets and essayists is not going to tell him how to build his short-wave radio.”

Her brows flew up into her fringe. “He’s building a short-wave radio?”

“New project. I encourage him, but I’d prefer if he would scrape through his tests as he does so.”

“And that’s what I’m here for,” she said confidently, placing her empty cup on the table between them. “He just needs to learn to love the language. I think we can get through to him.”

Rush felt strangely old looking at her poised stance. She had frequented his house many times all those years ago back when she was still working as a part-time housekeeper, often enough for people to start whispering rumors and fabricate stories about the dragon luring in helpless maidens. She had doted upon Balfour and the boy had adored her, even to the extent of making her cards on Valentine’s Day. The boy would hand them to her with a shy smile and a red lollipop and she would accept them with a laugh and a kiss on his cheek. The sight had endeared Rush just as much as it had made him internally flame with jealousy, and he had been so disgusted with himself. A grown man jealous of a little boy, and that too, over a girl just a few years out of high school. While he had felt young and free of the burdens of his life and reputation whenever he spoke to her or made her laugh, there were also sudden moments when she had made him feel so old. She never intended to, but her innocence and the difference in their ages had always struck him them.  

Which was why I pushed her away in the first place.

“Well, I can assure you that you have far more chance of getting through to him than I do,” Rush assured with a dry smile. “I even stooped to the low of bribery, but he’s not falling for it. He saw right through it.”

Her mouth twisted in a smile. “He’s like his father, sees through any ploy put before him.”

“A bit too much like his old man sometimes,” Rush sighed, though he was smiling as well. “Tempting him with an Xbox would have worked last year.”

“Not so much anymore, and you’re not that old, Mr. Gladwell.”

“I’ve got more gray hairs than you, Miss Forrest,” he replied, “and like I said, there’s a much greater chance of him listening to you than to me.”

“Balfour remembers me?”

“He still has the pictures.”

She smiled fondly. “I still have the cards.”

“He’ll be pleased to hear that,” Rush nodded, “though I think he has his eye on Jefferson’s girl now.”

She sighed heavily in mock-sadness. “Balfour Gladwell, I always knew that he would break my heart.” She chuckled as Rush laughed aloud. “But that’s good. It’s good that he’s got friends his age. He used to be such a loner.”

“Yes, but that changed a few years ago.” After you left. After I sent you away to live your life instead of keeping you like I wanted to. “He decided that making friends in school was not such a bad idea, after all.”

“Good for him.”

“And what about you, Miss Forrest?” he asked, keeping his tone airy. “From what I hear, it looks like you’ve moved back for good.” You came back.

“This is my home, Mr. Gladwell,” she replied. “I was always going to come back.”

Rush tried not to read too much into her words. “And you’ve settled in? You’re staying with someone?” He found himself glancing surreptitiously at her hands and noticing the conspicuous lack of rings on her fingers, except that little silver one with the blue stone she had worn even when she was a girl.

“I’m staying with Rissy for now until I get settled into my apartment. It’s just the last pieces of paperwork; then, I can move in.”

“I was surprised that you answered the ad,” he confessed. An absent tap had started up on the head of his cane again as he watched her. She’s staying. She’s not going to leave.

“I wasn’t planning to waitress and housekeep forever,” she said pointedly. “I went to college and I studied literature. You know of how much I’ve always loved books. I decided to take up teaching and got a license. I now teach the fourth graders at the elementary school and have decided to take up tutoring in the evenings. I can start whenever you like.”

She looked so bright and lovely in the sunlight, a vivid mix of blue, gold and russet, a woman as opposed to the shy, but sweet girl she had been. A woman perhaps, but still one with so much life ahead, far too good for an old man with so much baggage.

“You can even start today if you like,” he found himself saying. “I’m sure that you would be a wonderful teacher. You always had such a way with people, especially with Balfour.” And me. You were everything I needed and even now, you’re far too good for me to try and keep you. You shouldn’t have to be the dragon’s mistress.

Her face softened. “I’ve grown up, Rush,” she said quietly.

He swallowed the tight lump growing in his throat. “I can see that, Belle.”

She tilted her head to one side, watching him with a strange expression. “I thought about you often,” she confessed, “while I was away.”

Rush felt a giddy happiness at her words that ought to have not been there at all. “Did you?”

“I did.” Her tone was frank, her face not betraying anything particular, “about why you do the things you do.”

He blinked, trying to keep his calm composure. Belle Forrest had always managed to confuse him with even the simplest of actions, but she had never been so blatantly cryptic. Still, he kept his cool, trying to sate the little flicker of hope in his chest. “And?” he asked.

“Everything has a reason,” she said simply.

Rush drank in the sight of her, her gentle colors lighting up his gray world. She always forgave. She was always the better person.  He dropped his silent pretenses and replied honestly, “I missed you every day.”

Belle turned her eyes to her knees, circling her fingers ever each other, an old habit that he had always found as endearing as he had found it irritating. She glanced up at him then, a smile on her lips.

“You won’t need to anymore. I’ll be here more often from now on, for Balfour.”

She was changed and he was changed: he, still older and carrying his burdens, and she, brighter, stronger and more radiant than he had ever known her. Life only gives lost things back to you for a reason.

“Of course,” he nodded. “For Balfour.”

Joy to the World...

Time for joy and time for cheer!

I've always loved Christmas time, ever since I was a wee lass watching the twinkly lights on the trees in the avenues or singing with carolers in my can't-carry-a-tune voice or grabbing every peppermint candy cane I could lay my hands on.

I don't celebrate Christmas in terms of religion, not being a Christian myself, but I've always felt that any major festival, to whomsoever it be of significance, is all about the spirit. In my book, I'll be with my roots and personal beliefs, but still, get into the spirit and respect for any other festival, be it Id or Hanukkah or Kwanza or Christmas or anything else. Because, really, ultimately, they're all times of joy, happiness, family and giving. It's the spirit of love and magic, friendship and brotherhood that it stands for and that is something that belongs to the universe.

So, to those in snowy places, Happy White Christmas! To those in not so snowy places (like where I am), Merry Christmas! To those who speak other languages besides English, I'll let the picture do the talking. They do speak a thousand words, after all.

And I would kill for a candy cane right now. Yes, I have an unhealthy obsession with peppermint.

Madden of Malham

Malham was far too small a place for anything to be kept secret. It was a far-flung village and parish, too far out to be a post town, its main businesses being its farms, gardens, festivals and tourism. Everyone knew each other by name or face. Everyone knew about Joan Tribley’s affair with the baker’s son and about how the Shiptons’ son was not the wife’s. Everyone knew when there was a visitor or a new tenant in the local inn. Everyone knew when it was someone’s birthday, or if there was a birth or death or wedding. But the one major mystery in Malham was the man who lived in Madden House.

Some folks called him Mister Havisham. Others called him the local Boo Radley. Nat called him Grandpa.

He had slipped away when his friends had declared after school that they were going to go out to the tarn to try and find the monster that lived in it. He had been tempted to join them, but had quietly asked Dom to cover for him and had escaped the group unseen. He trudged uphill towards Madden House, scarf wrapped tight around his ears against the cold wind of the waning autumn.

It was a three-story townhouse with ivy climbing over the white walls of the façade and lining the curtained windows. There was a garden out front with Worcester apple trees and Yorkshire roses lined with carefully arranged flagstones and a cherub fountain. The garden was immaculate, but strangely lonely, a silent companion to a seemingly empty house. Only one man was ever seen coming and leaving the estate, James the Housekeeper, known by no surname. He opened the heavy door when Nat knocked.

“Evenin’, James,” he greeted, wiping the mud from his shoes on the mat.

“Good evening, Master Woods,” he replied, his inscrutable face shifting into a small smile. No matter how much Nat complained or protested, James never called him by anything less formal. “The Master has been waiting for you.”

“How is he today?”  he asked, shucking off his coat and letting the housekeeper hang it off a stand.

“A bit better,” the housekeeper replied. “He managed to finish lunch.”

“That’s good. Did he ask you to read to him?”

“Yes, we read a chapter of Dickens today. He may ask you to carry on.”

Nat’s brows rose. “Oh, he spoke to you? That’s good.”

“Even asked a question, Master Woods. Come, he has been asking for you.”

Nat followed James the Housekeeper up the stairs, throwing surreptitious glances around him. He had been coming to Madden House regularly without the knowledge of his parents or friends for over four months, but never ceased to be intrigued by the telltale objects that lay around to give a clue about the mysterious master of the house. Thick leather-bound tomes lined the bookshelves, untouched by dust, but clearly long unread. Tiny curios lay strewn here and there: a rosewood crucifix with mother-of-pearl inlays on a wall, a porcelain angel on a table, an exquisite ship in a bottle sitting on a mantel, a wooden flute painted with tribal designs in an open case. They were all clean and tidily kept, all cared for by the taciturn housekeeper, but all still so oddly lonely, silent residents of a close-curtained house that told no tales outside its walls.

“Master George has arrived, sir,” James announced, ushering the boy into a bedroom on the first floor. It was a large sunny space with a wide window on one side and a roaring fireplace. Nat’s eyes roved over the ornate grandfather clock and the framed pictures that littered the mantel. Some of them showed an elegant dark-haired woman at various ages, one a strapping young man with a dead buck and a shotgun and a number of them described a smiling boy with dark hair that fluffed oddly in the front just like Nat’s did.

“Hi, Grandpa,” said Nat with a wide grin, dropping his satchel onto the thick rug and plopping down on the armchair situated next to the bed. A man was sitting up in it, dressed in thick pajamas and propped up on a number of pillows. Wispy strands of white hair clung to the top of his head and his hands were frail and lined, pale spiders against the dark red tartan quilt that lay over his legs. He did not look at the boy immediately, but kept his gaze out the window, staring over the dales.

“It’s real parky outside,” Nat commented airily, unwinding the scarf from around his neck. “The mates have gone off to the tarn; mad lot. They say they wanna find the ol’ Malgun monster. They’re gonna freeze their arses off. Ought to just sit in by a fire with a nice hot pikelet. Ta, James,” he told the housekeeper as the man placed a tray of hot crumpets with cream cheese and raspberry jam on the side table, along with two glasses of warm milk.

“I do believe you’re far too thin for a boy your age, Master George,” the housekeeper chided quietly.

“You worry too much, James,” Nat replied with a sideways grin, “and I told you, it’s just George. I’ve known you all my life.”

“Nevertheless, young master,” said James relentlessly with a pointed look and a hidden smile. He placed a pill next to one of the glasses and handed a book to Nat. “The pill is in case your head aches you too much, sir,” he added, addressing the aged man in the bed, who had not moved a muscle. “Master George suggested continuing reading from where we left it this afternoon. If you need anything, do ring for me.” He inclined his head in a polite gesture and exited the room, leaving the boy alone with the old man.

“I like ‘Great Expectations’,” Nat quipped, spreading cream cheese and jam over a crumpet before stuffing half of it into his mouth. “I read it from the library last week after I found out that you like Dickens, Grandpa. Miss Havisham is a right old bat, but it’s easy to feel sorry for her. And I like Pip; decent fellow, if not a bit dumb. It’s rather silly for a man to moon so madly after a girl. I bet Lia Whitley is prettier than her, and even so. I know I’d never be so mad. What do you think, Grandpa?”

Old Madden turned his head and looked at him with pale eyes that looked sunken in his aged face. Nat kept his smile up as he swallowed the rest of his crumpet and wiped his fingers on a napkin.

“I bet you’d agree with Pip, eh, Grandpa?” He ran a finger along the spine of the book, seeking out the embossed whorls in the leather binding. “You once told me that you called Grandma your Estella. It sounds a wee bit corny, but she must have liked it.” He fingered the hem of the dark green ribbon that marked the place in the book. “Are you in the mood to read a bit more now, or would you like to do something else?”

Madden’s gaze had not left Nat’s face. He was not unaccustomed to having the old man’s eyes bore so hard into him. It happened occasionally, on those evenings when Nat came to visit him and the man looked upon him as if he were a complete stranger. Otherwise, his mouth would stretch into a smile that was missing two teeth and his eyes would twinkle like little blue stars. Sometimes he spoke words of affection and interest in a hoarse, quavering voice. Other times, he laughed at something funny Nat would say: a thin, shaky sound that sounded half like a cough. If he did neither and was not in a mood to talk, he’d merely sit and listen with a smile to whatever stories Nat would tell him about his school and friends. James said that he was rarely aware anymore, that such moments were so fleeting that he believed them almost gone.

“Are you thirsty, Grandpa?” asked Nat, edging forward on his seat and holding up one of the glasses of milk. “It’ll get cold if you don’t drink it sometime soon.”

Old Madden’s eyes looked like smooth stones of the palest blue. Lines branched out on the skin around them, some deep like crevasses, made from age and laughter and weariness, some so faint that they seemed drawn with a pencil. He glanced at the glass in Nat’s hand before lightly shaking his head. Nat smiled ruefully; the man needed to consume something and was stubborn when he refused, but the fact that he gave any sort of reaction in itself was a good thing.

“Fine then,” he shrugged, setting it back on the side table next to the table lamp. “James said that you finished all of lunch today, but you need to eat a bit more if you’re going to keep up your strength. Maybe when you get a bit better, we can take a walk out to the cove or we can visit the tarn. I know that I mentioned a monster in it, but that’s just some silly story the mums around here make up to stop their kids from going. Not that it really stops us, but it’s really nothing.”

Madden gave no reply, but kept staring at Nat.

“If you get a lot better soon, I bet we could even go out onto the water: you, me and James, too, of course. We’d have to borrow Widow Fisher’s boat and her son, Ned, could take us out. Of course,” he winced, “she’d have to let us. Widow Fisher doesn’t like me much.”

The man’s gaze was unwavering, boring into Nat’s face like a pair of lances.

“Vincent Falkner is getting married next week,” the boy continued to babble, drumming his fingers on the face of the book. “He’s marrying Sally Taylor. The whole village is abuzz about it. Sally’s mum has been bustling around with dresses, ribbons and invitations, yelling at everyone involved in the preparations. Right old harpy, that woman, but I like Sally. She makes nice pies and always lets me have a piece on the sly. I don’t know Vincent that well; I only know that he used to be an altar boy at the church. Apparently, the whole village has been waiting for them to tie the knot already. If you get a bit more of your strength back, we can all dress up in our Sunday best and go. It’ll be fun. What do you think, Grandpa?”

Madden’s eyes roved over Nat’s face in a strange way that made him oddly uncomfortable. He had been visiting for a long time, but the man had never stared at him in such a penetrating way.

“What’s your name, boy?”

Nat blinked, frozen. He had only ever heard old Albert Madden speak a handful of times, all times speaking fond words in a wheezing voice that was heavily unused. This time, there was no trace of the familiar fondness and his tone rang with clarity.

“George Madden.” Nat laughed nervously. “That was your Papa’s name; you named me. Don’t you know me, Grandpa?”

Madden’s face was not the gentle aged face that Nat had become used to. It wore the hard expression of a stranger whom he had never before set eyes on. The old man shook his head and coughed; the action seemed to cost him so much strength. Nat nearly jumped out of his chair to ease Madden into his pillows and push a glass of water to his thin lips, but his wariness kept him frozen. His eyes flicked momentarily to the rope of the bell at the side of the bed.

“My grandson died of pox years ago, taking with him my name,” Madden spoke. His tone was hoarse, the words spoken without any emotion. “What is your name?” he repeated. A hard frown creased his brow, deepening the thin lines around his eyes. “And speak the truth, boy. I’m not always a doddery old fool.”

Albert Madden’s eyes were sharp and clear, unlike the haziness that usually permeated them. Nat stared in shock and fear, unsure of how to reply. How could he break the truth to a man who had called him by another name for so long, simply because he coincidentally resembled a dead boy whom he had doted upon? How could he lie to the mild old man whom he had tended to, read to and cared for every day for the past four months?

“N-Nathaniel,” he stammered. His hands trembled as they clenched the expensive upholstery of the armchair. “Nathaniel Woods.”

Madden stared at him for a moment longer, as if screening him for any sign of a falsehood. He turned away and leaned back into his pillows, closing his eyes tiredly.

“Nathaniel Woods,” he murmured. Nat remained fearfully motionless, wondering wildly if Albert Madden was going to forget about his real name or punish him for his lies. A moment later, he heard a soft snore as the old man exhaled in his sleep, his breath rustling the hairs of his sparse white moustache and beard. Suddenly terrified, he dropped the elegant copy of ‘Great Expectations’ on the floor, grabbed his satchel and sprinted out the door, snatching up his coat and scarf and ignoring James’s startled shout.

A week passed after Madden’s questions, during which Nat did not dare to return for fear of rejection or punishment. He spent his evenings with his friends, attended Sally Taylor’s wedding and fixed the broken chain on his bicycle, staying as far away from Madden House as possible. He was almost becoming used to the change in routine when James the Housekeeper came to his house dressed in a crisp black suit and accompanied by a lawyer. Nat barely heard any of his mother’s gasps and his father’s exclamations when James, now named James Browning, informed them about Nat’s relationship with Albert Madden and announced gravely that the old man had died in his sleep.

“In his last words, he had asked for George,” he added, glancing at Nat’s stricken face. His tone was in no way accusing, nor was it sympathetic. Nat wondered quietly if James the Housekeeper had any emotions or any other purpose in life besides serving Albert Madden.

When the lawyer read out the testament, the words ‘old friend of nobility’, ‘Duke of York’, ‘estate and belongings’ and ‘left to Nathaniel Woods’ swam around in his mind, but Nat could only think of the lonely old man with a failing memory, a wheezing laugh and a kind, lined face, the man who had called him grandson. When James reached into a bag and handed him the fine leather-bound copy of ‘Great Expectations’, Nat opened it to where the green ribbon marked its place and began to read aloud.