Roger Noons
The Glenlivet, a double
He was sitting at the table, glass in hand when I walked
into the bar. Eyes staring with no particular focus, his lips forming silent
words. I wondered if he was praying.
‘Dad,’ I said,
too gently perhaps, as he showed no reaction.
I sat down
opposite him, shook my head in the direction of the barman. My father looked
right through me. I waited; his lips continued to shape words, no attempt to
take a drink.
After a couple
of minutes I rested my fingers on his wrist. ‘Dad?’
He blinked several times, gradually focussing
on me, frowning.
‘Ralph?’
‘Yes Dad, how
are you?’
‘All right
Son, I’m all right,’ and he lifted the glass and threw the contents into his
mouth. After carefully placing the tumbler in the centre of the table, he added.
‘Come to take me home?’
‘Yes.’
As I helped
him up, I mouthed how much to the barman, received a gesture of four
fives, so placed a twenty pound note alongside the glass. As we made our way
slowly towards the door, my father paused and stared at me. ‘I was talking to
your mother, are we going to see her?’
‘Not now, it’s
dark and the cemetery gates will be locked.’
‘Tomorrow
then?’
‘Yes Dad,
we’ll go tomorrow.’
