ever really known him.
And Imogenâs secret? Lucy, as sheâd promised, never tried to find out, and the girl was doing okay and was, Lucy supposed, busy getting on with life, and as happy as she might ever be. But some day, some day quite soon, Lucy planned to find out once and for all. But it would only be to satisfy her curiosity, to satisfy it and put some ghosts to rest.
And now all she needed was a cigarette. A cigarette and maybe a night cap, something short and sweet and warming. Not coffee though, not now.
The Golden Boy
Scott was relieved when glancing in the mirror behind the bar he saw the young woman finally get up from her chair. She seemed reluctant at first, hesitating as she fussed with her bag and the empty carafe on the table, but then, with her head held high, her pretty little nose aimed up in the direction of the stars, sheâd walked away.
He had sensed in her a rather disturbing edge. The day before when he happened to look through the bedroom window and saw her talking to Aaron on the street, heâd taken her for some sort of mental health professional or social worker. Their family had had plenty of dealings with those folk in Canada. Lately they had suggested that Aaron could not continue to live with his ageing parents; theyâd said that the house was too isolated, that it was dangerous on account of the wood - burning stove and its accompanying block and axe in the backyard. One of the assistant social workers, a Mrs Patel, had been frightened by the sight of Aaron after heâd come around to the front of the house with the axe in his hand when sheâd rung the doorbell. Theyâd cited Aaronâs fatherâs health â heâd had thyroid and liver problems since he was relatively young. And his motherâs â mainly as sheâd told them she was getting forgetful lately. But Aaron enjoyed chopping wood; it was one of the few things that seemed to give him a sense of purpose. And their father had always had sallow skin, though it sure looked worse when he wore those god - awful bright emerald and orange and red sweaters that his mother knitted. And as for his motherâs forgetfulness? Well, she always prided herself on her good memory and would worry about memory loss if she couldnât remember the names of every single teacher sheâd had in grade school and the lines of poetry and prose sheâd learnt by rote aged nine. It was absurd, the whole thing.
The social worker had put forward three choices to Scott; one, that Aaron be moved to a residential home eighty miles away, two, that Aaron should within the next year move in with Scott and his partner or three, that Scott should move back home to live with his parents in order to help with Aaron.
Scott had not told either of his parents or Marilyn about this. He did not see the point of spreading worry and misery amongst his family with the problem and was certain he could disabuse the social workers of these ideas by proving to them that Aaron was happy and cared for, and that his parents, despite appearances, would be able to cope for another good ten to twenty years at least.
He did not know how he could prove that Aaron and his parents were fine, but he had talked to a friend about it. The friend was a criminal defender, so while it wasnât exactly his field, he did have some interesting things to say about human rights, liberty and state intervention, and promised he would do some research on similar cases, and also speak to colleagues who were more directly involved in that field. He did say however that the axe incident as interpreted by the social worker, Mrs Patel, was the most worrying aspect, as public safety would always be put before private liberty.
All of this was weighing heavily on Scottâs mind when they had set off for their annual trip to France. Perhaps a less caring man would just have let the social services get on with it. Such a man would have made it
And Imogenâs secret? Lucy, as sheâd promised, never tried to find out, and the girl was doing okay and was, Lucy supposed, busy getting on with life, and as happy as she might ever be. But some day, some day quite soon, Lucy planned to find out once and for all. But it would only be to satisfy her curiosity, to satisfy it and put some ghosts to rest.
And now all she needed was a cigarette. A cigarette and maybe a night cap, something short and sweet and warming. Not coffee though, not now.
The Golden Boy
Scott was relieved when glancing in the mirror behind the bar he saw the young woman finally get up from her chair. She seemed reluctant at first, hesitating as she fussed with her bag and the empty carafe on the table, but then, with her head held high, her pretty little nose aimed up in the direction of the stars, sheâd walked away.
He had sensed in her a rather disturbing edge. The day before when he happened to look through the bedroom window and saw her talking to Aaron on the street, heâd taken her for some sort of mental health professional or social worker. Their family had had plenty of dealings with those folk in Canada. Lately they had suggested that Aaron could not continue to live with his ageing parents; theyâd said that the house was too isolated, that it was dangerous on account of the wood - burning stove and its accompanying block and axe in the backyard. One of the assistant social workers, a Mrs Patel, had been frightened by the sight of Aaron after heâd come around to the front of the house with the axe in his hand when sheâd rung the doorbell. Theyâd cited Aaronâs fatherâs health â heâd had thyroid and liver problems since he was relatively young. And his motherâs â mainly as sheâd told them she was getting forgetful lately. But Aaron enjoyed chopping wood; it was one of the few things that seemed to give him a sense of purpose. And their father had always had sallow skin, though it sure looked worse when he wore those god - awful bright emerald and orange and red sweaters that his mother knitted. And as for his motherâs forgetfulness? Well, she always prided herself on her good memory and would worry about memory loss if she couldnât remember the names of every single teacher sheâd had in grade school and the lines of poetry and prose sheâd learnt by rote aged nine. It was absurd, the whole thing.
The social worker had put forward three choices to Scott; one, that Aaron be moved to a residential home eighty miles away, two, that Aaron should within the next year move in with Scott and his partner or three, that Scott should move back home to live with his parents in order to help with Aaron.
Scott had not told either of his parents or Marilyn about this. He did not see the point of spreading worry and misery amongst his family with the problem and was certain he could disabuse the social workers of these ideas by proving to them that Aaron was happy and cared for, and that his parents, despite appearances, would be able to cope for another good ten to twenty years at least.
He did not know how he could prove that Aaron and his parents were fine, but he had talked to a friend about it. The friend was a criminal defender, so while it wasnât exactly his field, he did have some interesting things to say about human rights, liberty and state intervention, and promised he would do some research on similar cases, and also speak to colleagues who were more directly involved in that field. He did say however that the axe incident as interpreted by the social worker, Mrs Patel, was the most worrying aspect, as public safety would always be put before private liberty.
All of this was weighing heavily on Scottâs mind when they had set off for their annual trip to France. Perhaps a less caring man would just have let the social services get on with it. Such a man would have made it
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