‘Son,’ I began, but he let me get no further.
‘Read it again. That’s what it says.’
I’ve tried, but I can’t share his certainty, his faith, I suppose. He’s nearer nine than ever now, and still acting as an altar server for Father Olivares, sometimes in the big church in L’Escala. The old man’s set aside any thought of retirement; I suspect that he’s keeping the seat warm for someone. . just as I am, I suppose.
I’ve decided that I will give him at least one of his two years. After that, if he hasn’t returned, I’ll either declare myself open for suitable invitations, or I’ll say, ‘Bugger this for a game of Benedictines!’ and head for Limerick.
Until then. .