When George arrived for his nightly visit with his father, he often found that Raymond was fairly exhausted from the exertions of the day. Particularly if it was one which involved a visit from the physio. Christine had thought this might afford her and George an opportunity to talk. But she was mistaken in this regard. George resisted all her attempts to engage in conversation, instead contenting himself with sitting by his slumbering father’s bed. This changed one night when he’d arrived later than usual, and Christine was cooking. As he sat with Raymond, going over the Ed Squire case in his mind, he was distracted by the smells emanating from the kitchen. Whatever it was smelled enticing to the hungry murder detective, who had foregone lunch that day. Cross had decided to cook something the moment he got home. He resisted the urge to explore what was going on in the kitchen, until he finally justified leaving his father’s bedside by looking at his watch and determining that the requisite attendance had been fulfilled. He generally stayed with Raymond for bang on an hour. This he considered to be sufficient, not only to demonstrate that his filial obligations for the day had been fulfilled, but also to allow Raymond ample opportunity to wake up and enjoy his son’s company. He appeared in the kitchen doorway as Christine was taking a dish of shepherd’s pie out of the oven. She was surprised to see him because, as a general rule, he didn’t bother finding her when he left to say goodbye. He simply called out from the door as he went.
‘I’m leaving,’ he announced uncharacteristically.
‘Oh. Did he wake up?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘It’s been a tough day for him. Dessie was round this morning.’
Dessie was the physiotherapist Cross had employed to give his father extra sessions.
‘Yes. He texted me,’ Cross replied.
‘Oh, I didn’t know he did that,’ she commented.
‘Yes. Just to keep me informed of how Raymond is progressing.’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ she replied. ‘He’s ever so grateful.’
‘Really? I imagine he gets a lot of work,’ Cross replied.
‘Not Dessie. Your father. He’s working ever so hard and can see the benefits already. He knows it’s because of the extra physio you’re paying for.’
‘There’s no need to be grateful,’ he assured her.
‘Well, he is.’
He watched as she dished out a portion of the shepherd’s pie onto a plate. It steamed invitingly. She looked up at George.
‘Everything all right, George?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
She strained some vegetables.
‘Is that cabbage?’ he asked.
‘No, sprout tops. They’re delicious.’
‘Brussels sprout tops?’ he asked.
‘Have you never had them?’ she asked, surprised.
‘I have not,’ he replied, without moving.
The penny finally dropped with Christine. She was so unused to getting anything from George that her expectations were very low.
‘Would you like to stay for dinner, George? I think there’s enough for both of us and Raymond’s lunch tomorrow,’ she said finally.
He didn’t reply, just pulled a chair out from under the kitchen table and sat down. She smiled and got out an extra three plates for George. One for the pie, one for the runner beans and one for the never-before-tried sprout tops. They sat and ate. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed eating in absolute silence for a full twenty minutes with someone else. George had been a fussy eater as a child but by the way he tucked in enthusiastically, he’d obviously grown out of it. It was, for her, an enormous step forward in the re-establishment of their relationship. For him, it was also something of a revelation.
The Brussels sprout tops were, indeed, delicious.