Pamela knew something was wrong when she found the front door unlocked. George was always so particular about security, always triple checking the locks and urging her to do the same.

‘This estate’s not what it used to be,’ he said. ‘Not with all the migrants moving in.’

Though such comments made Pamela uncomfortable, she didn't challenge them. George was 88, after all. His opinions weren’t going to change now, were they?

‘Hello,’ Pamela called into the hallway. ‘George, it’s Pammy. Are y’up?’

When no response came, her heart lurched. What if there was an intruder?

She was looking for something to defend herself with when she heard a woman’s voice say, ‘You must be Pamela.’

Startled, she looked up to see a middle aged woman smartly dressed in a black pencil skirt and bright red blouse. Pamela felt suddenly self-conscious in her tracksuit and folded her arms against her chest.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘Sarah Slack, I’m George’s daughter.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I doubt he ever mentioned me, did he?’


Pamela stared into her cup of tea as the news settled in her mind.

‘This must be a frightful shock,’ Sarah said. ‘I would’ve called, but I couldn’t find your number in Dad’s address book.’

‘That’s alright. Lucky I called in, I s’pose.’

Pamela took a sip of her tea and remembered how, just two days ago, she’d been sitting at this table with George, the Daily Mail crossword between them. As was their routine, she read the clues aloud and he gave the answers, asking, ‘Does that fit?’ as she filled in the grid. That was what he missed most, he said, being able to see the crossword for himself; that and seeing who he was talking to.

‘Would you like another cup of tea?’ Sarah asked.

Though she’d not yet finished her first, Pamela nodded. It was obvious this woman wanted company.

Filling the kettle at the sink, Sarah looked over her shoulder. ‘You’re probably wondering why my father and I lost touch.’

‘None of my business, is it?’

‘I married an Indian man,’ Sarah said simply. ‘Long before my father lost his sight, ironically. He didn't approve.’

Setting the cups down on the table, she said, ‘May I ask you something?’

‘Go on.’

‘Did he know that you’re-,’

She paused.

‘Black?’ Pamela offered.

Sarah sighed. ‘You must think me terribly rude.’

‘Nah, he didn't know for a while, but one day he was going on about darkies and how a white man doesn’t have a say in the UK anymore. That’s when I told him that my parents were Jamaican.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said, ‘Well, you’re alright, I know you. Now, give me nineteen down again’.’

The two women laughed and Pamela noticed tears blur in Sarah’s eyes.

Sarah dabbed them away with a tissue. ‘I couldn’t believe it when he rang me last night. It’d been years since I heard his voice. He sounded so old.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said, ‘Sorry’. That’s all. And two hours later I was at his bedside. One word. That’s all it took. One word and ten years.’

They sat in silence, the clock ticking loudly in the background.

‘You’re wrong, you know, about what you said earlier,’ Pamela said at last. ‘He was always talking about you.’

Sarah frowned. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

Sarah sat very still for a moment, her hands clasped around her cup of tea. Tears rolled down her cheeks, her chest rising and falling with sobs.

‘Thank you,’ she said at last. ‘That means a lot to me.’