In her light graceful laugh there was an underlying note that said “Beware”.
“Hey, mind where you’re going, mate!”
“You looking for a mouthful of knuckles, granpa? Just watch it.”
A little, bald, active man, always pecking at this and that, like a wren.
Does it matter what Graham was like? Nobody will care in a hundred years’ time. But I care, now.
Since we were tiny boys he had led me. Good or bad his notion might be, he always knew how to impose it. We must have looked an odd pair: he short, robust, packed with purpose, and I lanky, gangling, vague, ever a step or two behind.
Which was what saved me. To explore the old tin workings seemed one of his better notions at the time. It turned out to be his worst, and last.
I still follow him, all these years later. He still leads. But I have had to learn to work out for myself what his next notion might be.
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