Three Letters. Josephine Cox

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.