Owen looked up from his book as if surprised to find himself in the sitting room. ‘What? Sorry. What do I think about George’s standards?’
Sally laughed. ‘Now, don’t be coy. I know you were listening, and I know you understood the question.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Owen gave a half smile, signalling he knew he’d been caught out in subterfuge, and stood up. ‘Let me see properly.’ He walked around George’s mother, inspecting her from all angles before saying, ‘You look… different.’
‘Different?’ George pulled himself off the sofa and joined in with the inspection.
Sally laughed and twinkled her green eyes at both her boys.
‘Stop teasing Owen. Tell me what you think,’ she said.
‘Hmm, well, it’s like this, see,’ he said, sounding quite Welsh. ‘If I were older, and I thought you might have me, I’d tell Henry to take a hike. But as it is, I’m too young, not in your league, and your son is like a brother to me. So, it’s wouldn’t be proper, but I think you are beautiful and very elegant. That Henry is a lucky man. I hope he realises it, but if he doesn’t or if you ever feel like being a cougar, then I’m your man.’
Sally blushed. Owen glanced at George, who was gaping at him.
The doorbell rang.
‘I’ll let him in,’ George said. ‘I’ve got to go now, anyway. Look after Mum, will you Owen.’
‘What? Do you want me to play chaperone?’
‘No, just while he’s here. Try to make it clear, he’s must treat her well.’
‘George!’ Sally turned to him. ‘Henry is a gentleman, and I can look after myself.’
The doorbell rang for a second time.
‘Sorry.’ George headed for the hallway. ‘I’d better let him in. Have a good time, Mum.’
George reached the street door and pulled it open just as the bell rang for a third time.
‘Sorry… family conference,’ he said, pushing past Henry. ‘They’re in the sitting room. Go straight through.’
‘Are you going out?’ Henry asked, looking slightly surprised and stating the perfectly obvious.
‘Yes, meeting up with Millie. She’s got a night off.’
‘How nice. Have a good time.’
‘I will,’ George replied and belatedly added, ‘You too.’
Henry steppedinto the hall and closed the door. The place had a homely, clean smell, furniture polish, fresh coffee, and cake baking. Welcoming in a way he found hard to define and pinched hard at his long checked emotions. Since his wife’s death four years ago, he’d missed very much the sense of home that only a woman brought to a place, not that Sarah was ever into baking. He walked into the sitting room and found Owen standing there on his own. He was not sure if this was lucky or not.
‘No, Sally?’ Henry said, his crisp Scottish accent slightly stressed because he was annoyed with himself for stating an obvious fact for the second time in a manner of minutes.
‘She nipped upstairs to repair her hair,’ Owen said, a half-smile - cautious and curious, flitting across the face that to Henry was like looking in a mirror from thirty years ago.
‘Oh well, I suppose that’s what we men have always to look forward to,’ he said, adding on an afterthought: ‘Waiting for women to make themselves ready, I mean.’
Owen frowned. Henry wasn’t sure the reason. Had he seemed too chummy? Or was there perhaps a slight recognition? Henry inwardly shook the thought away. There was no possibility Owen would know who he was. The boy had been only three years old when they last met, and the meeting had been, unfortunately, brief. Most of all, he was considerably changed. Older, nearly fifty now, more wrinkled. He was still slim, and he liked to think, still virile. His full head of hair, the envy of his colleagues. If he were to let it grow longer, it would be just as wild and curly as Owen’s, but he kept it cropped short, much more comfortable under a barrister’s wig. And it was no longer that nearly black colour. The grey had taken over at a rapid pace in mid-life, and it was now nearly white. There was no chance he would be recognised. And yet… Was Owen staring?
Henry broke the awkward silence. ‘I used to have a wild head of hair like you when I was young.’
‘Is that so?’ Owen shrugged and sat, indicating Henry should do the same.
Henry remained standing and noticed the boy glancing longingly at the book placed on the chair arm. He hid a smile. So, Owen was bookish. He’d been the same. Still was. Nothing nicer that settling down for a good read.
‘What are you reading?’ he asked.
