The Visit

She tries not to comment, but it’s hard. He’s holding their grandson like a guitar across his chest. Cartwheels him over. And over. Passes him behind his head.  The boy’s laughter borders on hysteria. She’d rather they read a book. She’s brought one with her, freshly unearthed from the attic, not even musty. It had been their son’s favourite.

And this room. More like a dumping ground for his old instruments, like that drum-kit in the corner with its worn, pocked skins. The dressing-room of a third-rate club. A place where jaded stand-ups rehearse their lines; strippers apply fake tan; singers gargle with a shot of whisky. A room that smells of hundreds of fish and chip suppers, pizzas, kebabs.

Over the door, last year’s tinsel hangs from yellowing scraps of tape. And the walls, plastered with posters, those on top torn or peeling to reveal others, like archaeological deposits. One catches her attention: an immense figure in gold overalls, back-lit, legs apart, one arm thrusting a mic into the air. At its feet, tiny coloured figures like jelly babies mimic the stance. It’s from a tour he did decades ago. She knows this is what he once believed himself to be: a colossus, a king pin. Now there’s sheen on his mottled face, dampness under his arms, dirt in his fingernails. He is over-weight – worryingly so – his belly bulging like a bundle of washing. When he sets the boy down, she takes the child onto her lap. He clings to her, his little heart beating fast against hers.

‘I appreciate you bringing him,’ he says. He gives a vague sweep of his hand. ‘I’ll do it one day, you know, put this place on the map. Give him a grandad to be proud of.’ He thrusts something at her. ‘I got him this. And before you say anything, it’s white, so he won’t get messy.’

How on earth could he have forgotten?  She slips the chocolate bar into her bag. ‘Why don’t I take that poster?’ She indicates the figure in gold. ‘For his bedroom wall when he’s a bit older.’  She pretends not to notice how happy this thought makes him.

On the train back, she cradles the boy’s head until he falls asleep. He’s dairy-intolerant, has been since a baby. The rolled-up poster is on the seat beside them. She’ll pass it on when the time is right: when their son might have mellowed towards his father; when their grandson knows not every story has a happy ending.