Do You Know Indigo?

Chapter Eight

"So when's your stop?" Nate asked, absent mindedly flicking through his iPod.

"About ten minutes. I then have to walk for half an hour after that, no big deal."

"Must be hard to visit often then, huh?" he supposed.

"Yeah but it makes our time together more special," I concluded, again wary of the Mercedes lurking on our heels.

Was Devon likely to own one?

I sighed in relief as my stop approached and I could get off, leaving the Mercedes behind. I got up to get off but Nate grabbed my arm. I spun around in alarm.

"Here's my number, come and see me play in the coffee shop sometime, if I get the slot that is." Nate pushed a slip of paper into my hand. I looked around for something to scribble my number on. He held out a pen and his arm. Quickly I scrolled my number onto his arm and then waved goodbye. Nate waved back and prepared to stick his iPod earphones into his ears.

Jumping off the bus, I watched it pull away. The Mercedes had thankfully gone. The joys of being overly paranoid.

The walk to Dad's care home was quiet, the centre of the city bustling away in the distance. It was perhaps the greenery and head space that attracted me. There was a tranquil order in the surroundings of the house that drew my attention.

Grace Penny Care Home was set up quaintly on a sprawling lawn. A gothic fence lined the border and the flowers raised their heads to the skies. From a brief glance at the Georgian facade you would never have expected it to home the sick and frail.

But in the midst of the greying city, my father's home was my only haven.

I rang the bell and waited for one of the nurses to come and let me in. Through the opaque glass a figure approached. The nurse smiled as she welcomed me back.

My father was sitting in his armchair by the back window. He gazed, almost longingly out at the view. What thoughts occupy your head, dear one?

My father raised his hand to the orchid on the sill. He held it to his nose and smiled. Then he stilled. His sharp eyes found me and he grinned all the more.

"Ah mon petit choux," he greeted.

''Ça va Papa?" He worked slowly, his mind processing the words in a delicate fashion. Even speech could be as forgotten as his past.

"Eh bien ma cherie. Pour miex. Et vous?" he said.

"Mieux pour vous voir Papa." I smiled at him. That was enough French for today. Enough of the past to settle the mind.

Seating myself by him, I pulled the tattered photo album of my childhood from my bag. Together we recalled the part of my life he'd been robbed of and the years that followed.

He'd never known the first three years of my life; Mum hadn't wanted to bring me to him. I don't think she'd forgiven him for leaving her in body and mind with her dreams left in tatters.

She had not fully grasped the terms of a one night stand.

I opened the front cover for the millionth time. The first page was a picture of me, a fresh new born. I was the screaming pinkish blob, unaware of how unwanted I was. My mother was so lost with me held in her arms.

My father's expressions changed as the pictures did. For instance there was a picture of me in a red dress, it was my second Christmas. Mum had bought me my first doll. Dad always laughed.

My Gran, my dear Gran held me tight in the next. She swung me around and around, my wellington boots flying. We were at the beach. Our beach. How she had loved me.