George wanted to make the film for his granddaughter, Annie.
He had seen the in Linda’s face when he told her not to bring Annie to the hospice. He couldn’t bear the thought of her seeing him like this.
George had shrunk physically. The muscles had fallen away from his arms, leaving them pencil thin. And a cloying sweet smell clung to his body; he noticed it more when the nurses changed his position in the bed.
Linda had noticed it too. He saw how she recoiled, but quickly concealed it, when she adjusted his pillows.
He told Linda about film he wanted to make; he knew she had a video camera. She’d been uncertain at first about it, but George had persisted.
‘The counsellor woman here thinks it’s a good idea and I want to say a few words to Annie on film before … And I don’t want her at the funeral either. I want the last thing she sees of me to be on this film, not something sealed up in a wooden box.’
‘All right, I’ll bring it in tomorrow.’
‘Annie’s meant a lot to me. I realise that now. I’ve been lying here thinking about her. Going through your mum’s photo album has helped bring back the memories.’
Linda picked up the album. ‘That’s a nice one of us all.’ Her voice quivered.
George peered at the photo of the four of them. ‘Your mum, God rest her soul, hated having her picture took, but she looks nice there. You and Annie look well sun-burned.’
‘It was a nice holiday, that.’
They sat in silence, beyond words.

George and his step-daughter had found common ground in Annie over the years. It had been difficult for him those first years, living with Linda - someone else’s kid - and he and her hadn’t always hit it off, particularly when she was in her teens.

But he remembered how this had changed when Linda’s marriage fell apart, leaving her a lone parent with an eighteenth month old child to bring up. Annie had grown up around him and Rose, his wife. Her chatter and antics brightened their lives. She was an affectionate child and would often sit on his knee whilst they watched some kid’s programme on the television. George developed a quiet, deep love for the little girl; he had married Rose late in his life and had no children of his own.
When Rose had died four years ago, he continued to keep in touch with Linda and Annie, although their visits had tailed-off in the last two years now his grand-daughter had entered her teens. He hadn’t seen Annie for months - and missed her.
‘How is she?’
‘All right. But you know what teenagers are like, George, up and down.’
‘Moody, eh? She takes after her mum.’
They both laughed.
‘Moody, ain’t the word for it sometimes. Her dad’s been in touch with her recently, when he feels like it, that is - and it’s unsettled her.’
‘She’ll be all right in the long run. You’ll see.’
‘I’d better be getting back. I’ll bring the video recorder in tomorrow.’

George sat with his notepad. He had struggled for hours. The memories had come flooding back, but the words he had searched for often seemed inadequate; not capturing the depth of his feelings, which had swollen and choked him all morning. But he was satisfied now with what he planned to say. Linda had set up the camera earlier in the day in front of his bed. He blew his nose, pulled himself together and called the nurse. She helped him into position and set the film running.
‘Annie, my lovely Annie, when you get to see this I will have died. So I wanted to say a few things to you, about how important you’ve been to me all your life.’

*

‘Annie, are you listening?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t talk to me like that. It’s your granddad, I told you. He made this film just before he died. He wanted to say a few things to you.’
‘What sort of things? It sounds weird. Do I have to see it?’
Linda felt her temper rising. Annie was sprawled on the sofa, empty crisps packets scattered around.
‘Yes you do. You got let of the hook for the funeral. The least you can do is watch the film. He made it especially for you. He was very fond of you, you know.’
‘I sorry he’s dead and all that, but I hadn’t seen him for ages. And I’m expecting a call from Sara. This ain’t a good time. I’ll watch it later, all right.’
‘No, it’s not all right. There’s never a good time with you, is there? Look, have some respect for your granddad’s last wishes. It only takes ten minutes.’
Annie sighed.

Linda played the film. George was sitting up in bed, facing the camera. He looked exhausted.
Annie, my lovely Annie, when you get to see this I will have died…
Annie’s phone trilled.
‘Sara. Where are you? Did you meet him? What’s he like?’
‘Annie, get off that phone now! Call her back.’
‘It’s important.’
Do you remember that time when you fell off the climbing frame in the park? We rushed you to hospital. It was the longest night of my life…
‘Turn that phone off. For God’s sake, Annie, I don’t know what sort of person you’re turning into, I really don’t.’
I was proud of you that day at school, when you got to play Mary at the Christmas nativity. You were set on getting that part, and you did. You pestered your teacher until she agreed. I can see you now, rocking the baby Jesus…’
‘Why are you on at me all the time? You’re always going on at me. No wonder dad cleared off.’
And there was that time we went to see ‘Sleeping Beauty’ in Leeds. Do you remember? You and I were on the front row and got pulled onto the stage at the end. I was shaking like a jelly, standing there looking a right idiot, but you just took it all in your stride…
‘Don’t you ... don’t you dare say that to me. It’s me, me who’s had to look after you all these years. Your wonderful father, where is he when you’re forever wanting this, that, and the next thing buying for you? Well!’
‘Sara, you still there? She’s having a go again. Can I come round? I’m sick of her.’
‘You’re not going anywhere. And give me that phone. I’m confiscating it.’
‘Leggo! Leggo of it. Give it back. You rotten cow. I hate you!’
‘What did you call me?’
‘ Cow! A miserable, rotten, cow!’
And I’ve always been very proud of you. And I know your mum is too.
‘Where d’you think you’re going?’
‘You can’t stop me.’
‘Get back here – now.’
Annie, my darling girl, you brought a lot of ... of joy into my life, watching you grow up. So I want to thank you for that. I know it will be the last thing I remember in this world.