A full peel of a robotic Big Ben echoed loudly throughout the terraced house. Mr Jackson folded The Guardian carefully in half and placed it on the table next to his armchair. He removed his reading glasses, and allowing them to hang around his neck, pulled on the chain of his other pair and placed the thick frames carefully on his nose. He blinked, encouraging his tired old eyes into yet another tour of duty.

No sooner had the metallic melody ended, when it started up again. There was no doubting who was at the door now. He didn’t get many visitors these days and he knew of only one little impatient finger that was always too eager to press the bell more than once. Mr Jackson sighed deeply as he slowly shook his head from side to side. It was time.

As the chime continued its piece, he began the slow process of getting to his feet. He would begin by rubbing his knees, coaxing them into some form of cooperation, which was all too minimal these days. Then he would gently run his hands over his ankles, warming and teasing them, hoping that a trickle of blood would once again be willing enough to travel all the way down. Finally, before he could be confident that his legs would be able to bear his weight, he soothed the muscles in his calves and thighs by kneading them softly one by one.

Now ready, he picked up his stick, which was never beyond his immediate reach, and leaned heavily against both it and the table as he painfully pulled himself up. A chorus of noisy pops and sharp cracks sang out as his joints complained at the unfair abuse he was putting them through.

The sound of fierce banging erupted from the end of the hallway as a fist beat upon the door. He ignored it. Experience told him that he needed to focus on what he was doing if he was going to make it there at all. Holding his breath, he placed his right dominant foot down carefully in front of him, testing its strength. Happy with the results, and using his stick for support, he moved his left leg forward and repeated the experiment. Contented, he gingerly shuffled across the dusty carpet of the tiny living room and made his way out down the hall. The pounding broke out again as Mr Jackson neared.

‘All right,’ he croaked, trying extremely hard to remain calm. It seemed to have done the trick as the violent blows ceased. He released the chain, hooked it on its rest, and unlatched the door. Within seconds of opening it, two frantic creatures burst through the miniscule gap and bounded around his straining legs. The boy and his dog were yelping up at him, neither one did he understand, but their emotions were clear: they were full of excitement. He grew exhausted just watching them running around, buffeting against him.

Mr Jackson peered round the door and smiled weakly at the third visitor who was waiting on the doorstep.

‘Hello, dear,’ he greeted, in his usual gravelly voice.

‘Hi Dad,’ the young woman replied. Mr Jackson was taken aback for a moment; he almost thought he noticed the corners of her mouth rise slightly. She gave a quick wave, and having noticed her brief departure from normality, she rolled her eyes and pushed passed him.

‘Oh, do come in,’ he whispered as he closed the door behind them. Trying desperately to avoid toppling over the balls of energy dancing round his feet, he followed his daughter, and returned to the living room. Aghast, he found Linda, sitting in his armchair – his armchair; she knew better than that. The joints in his fingers complained painfully at the sudden increased exertion he’d forced upon them as his grip tightened on the walking stick. Deep breaths, come on, you can do it. Just for today.

‘Cup of tea, dear?’ he asked, coughing slightly, but determined to keep his composure.

‘Cheers, Dad,’ she replied, not looking up from her mobile. ‘Two sugars.’

‘I know,’ he said under his breath, almost tripping on the two irritating little beasts who were constantly baying for his attention. One was little Scotty, of course, his hopelessly hyperactive six-year-old Grandson. The other bundle of fun was Scott’s horrendously smelly labrador, Bruno. Both were unbelievably demanding and equally incomprehensible. In fact, Mr Jackson often thought that the dog made more sense than the boy.

‘How’s young Scotty then?’ he asked, pinching the boy’s cheek and smiling through gritted teeth.

‘I’m fine, Grandad. Did you know…?’ the blonde-haired misfit replied, going on to describe a story that Mr Jackson didn’t listen to. His thoughts were elsewhere as he filled the kettle.

He didn’t like these visits, not one bit. But, what could he do? They were family after all, and besides, it would be over soon. He just had one last errand to perform. It was probably one of the most important tasks of his entire life, and certainly one of the most difficult that he’d faced for many years. He knew he had to sit Linda down and have a serious chat. She was trouble, that was true, but she was still his daughter, and he did love her, didn’t he? He’d always thought that he and Edna had been too old to have a child, and when his wife became pregnant it knocked them for six. But, whatever the case, he had a duty to look out for Linda, and that meant trusting her. If he couldn’t do it now, then when could he?

The steam rising from the whistling kettle brought Mr Jackson back into the kitchen. Scott and Bruno were out in the garden tearing round the lawn. Trampling on the pansies again no doubt. He patted his breast pocket and felt the faint outline of the envelope sitting in safety. Today, he’d leave them to cause chaos in his flowerbeds; did it really matter anyway?

Linda’s phone beeped twice signalling the arrival of a new text message. It was him, grovelling again. He’d never change, she knew that – she had always known that, so why did she keep giving in? Oh well, at least she had managed to get away for a bit, even though it was only to Dad’s. Still, Scotty loved seeing his old Grandad, and she knew that Dad looked forward to these visits just as much. Besides, she could do with a break from Scotty.

‘Here’s your tea, dear,’ said Dad.

She glimpsed up at her father and flashed him a smile before tapping away at a defiant reply. ‘Careful Dad, you’re spilling it. Just leave it here on the side.’

‘Anything you say, love,’ he said. Linda paused to watch him trying to avoid placing the steaming mug down on a half-finished crossword. He was taking an age.

‘Here, give it to me,’ she said, frustrated. Taking it from him, she set it down directly over three down and twelve across. A tan ring began to creep across the page, obliterating all within its path. Linda went back to texting, while Dad eased himself into the opposite chair. He began to cough and splutter. It lasted a good few seconds before culminating in a gurgling, guttural retch. Linda peered across at him, disgusted. Whatever he had brought up was now in a crisp white handkerchief.

‘Jesus, Dad,’ she moaned, crinkling her face and returning to the tiny screen in front of her.

‘Sorry, love,’ he replied, leaning to one side to put the hanky back in his trouser pocket. ‘Linda?’

‘Mmm?’ she uttered.

‘I need to talk to you about something.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s… it’s rather delicate.’

‘Oh?’ she said, raising her head. Perhaps this would be interesting. She actually put down her mobile on the rapidly disintegrating paper and sat back.

‘Go on then, what is it?’ she asked. ‘I’m all ears.’

Dad shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He appeared pale and drawn, and wore a sorrowful expression. It had been less than a month since she saw him last and yet he looked as though he’d grown a few years older in that time.

‘It’s about today,’ he said, running his hands repeatedly over and over each other.

‘Today?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘Yes. You see I need to talk to you about something. It’s important, and it has to be today,’ he said, looking deadly serious.

‘But what’s so important about today?’ she asked, trying not to smirk. She hoped she wasn’t going to have to sit through another of his funny moments.

‘Well, dear…’ he started, and stopped again as a crying Scotty ran into the room with Bruno close behind. At exactly the same moment, Linda’s phone began to sing. She picked up the mobile as Scotty leapt into her arms, tears rolling down his blotchy face.

‘Scotty, what’s the matter?’ she asked, scanning the screen.

‘Bruno… Bruno knocked me over,’ he managed to splutter inbetween sniffs.

‘Oh Bruno, you bad dog,’ she scolded the labrador, who appeared jubilant. ‘You’ll be alright Scotty-boy.’

She kissed him on the forehead and pushed him over towards her father. ‘Dad, please, I have to take this; it’s work.’ She walked out to the kitchen, and after a few brief exchanges, hung up and returned to the living room to see that Dad was not actually making too much effort calming his Grandson down. She grabbed Scott by the arm and collected her things.

‘Dad, we’ve got to go. Sandra needs me in; Jeff’s called in sick or something,’ she stated. ‘Sorry, I know you’ve been looking forward to this.’

‘Nevermind, dear,’ Dad replied, sounding tired.

‘Look, we’ll arrange another time, in a week or two, yes?’ she offered, shepherding Scotty to the hallway. Bruno followed obediently. ‘I’ll call you later OK?’

‘Yes, dear,’ he answered weakly.

Scotty had opened the front door and was heading towards the front gate. She was in a hurry, but something made Linda pause briefly, ‘Dad, are you alright?’ she asked.

‘Fine, dear,’ he replied softly. ‘Never better.’

‘Well, take care, and get some rest,’ she said, before hurrying off to catch up with her son.

‘Bye love,’ she heard him call after her. She hadn’t meant to slam the door shut behind her, the wind just caught it at exactly the same time she nudged it home. It made her jump and her handbag slipped off her shoulder landing heavily on the ancient rubber mat. She hastily retrieved the spilled contents while keeping an eye on Scotty, making sure he was still being held back by the iron gate, when she half-noticed an envelope lying at the foot of the door. Not having seen it before, she assumed the postman had dropped it, and fed it through the letterbox before heading down the path.

After helping Scotty with the gate and clipping Bruno’s lead to his collar, the three strode off down the street. Linda waved back towards the window before they turned the corner but Dad wasn’t there waving back this time. Oh well, perhaps he’d nodded off.