When A Blind Man Cries

Summer, 1971: Home Sweet Home

Saturday 7th August 1971

They ate in silence, which wasn't out of the ordinary. He decided he preferred it that way, because nothing good ever came from a conversation. It was uncomfortably stuffy in the small room, the last month of summer holding its own, plus his chair kept wobbling whenever he moved, which was a pain in the arse because he was no good at sitting still for long.

The familiar evening bluster of London played in the background of their strained family dinner, if you could call it such a thing. There was a car alarm blaring in the distance and a few alkies readying for a fight just outside their door, Home sweet home, he thought to himself with an amused tug on his lips.

Tonight's nosh was cheap bangers and mash, his favourite, but — as always — he hid the peas discreetly under the remains of his mash. He didn't give a toss if they were 'good for you', they certainly didn't bloody taste it.

"Pass us the army and navy, love," Dad said to Mum, who passed him the gravy boat without a word, which was really just a discoloured, glass measuring jug they'd had for a decade.

They must be on better terms now, then. Grant had heard them screaming at each other the night before, which also wasn't out of the ordinary, and Dad had threatened to leave again; he hadn't. Overall, Grant wasn't that fussed either way, but Mum did tend to mope about the house like a lost soul every time he left.

He'd always felt a bit sorry for her during those periods, although he didn't quite understand the concept of missing someone so deeply when they'd only treated you like shit. He'd find himself feeling a bit guilty too, especially when he'd hear her crying herself into a coma through the thin bedroom walls, as if it was all his doing. Although he never needed much convincing, as Grandad always found a way to make it Grant's fault, the old pillock.

Grant eyed his grandfather, his beefy arms straining grotesquely as he cut into his fourth sausage. He had a driblet of gravy in the corner of his mouth, which was gradually seeping into his grey beard. He'd been practically living with them for a few years now, ever since Gran had gone a bit batshit. Grant felt a little bad for thinking of her this way, but in all fairness, he wasn't wrong.

She'd been in and out of the hospital for a while, for this and that, until one day she'd decided she needed way more meds than the doctors had prescribed, and ended up as an inpatient for the foreseeable future. As horrid as it sounds, Grant hadn't been emotionally affected by her absence, he really hadn't known her all that well, only a few Christmas visits when he was a nipper. Honestly, he wasn't sure if Grandad had been much affected either, it was hard to tell, he'd always been a miserable old tosser.

Grant did remember the aftermath of her admission, however, specifically his ninth birthday being cancelled out of 'respect'. Along with his tenth (he'd accidentally smashed a window), and his eleventh (he honestly couldn't remember why). Distantly, he hoped he wouldn't cock-up this year, his twelfth birthday was in less than two weeks, which was a big one because twelve meant he was practically a teenager.

"Grant." Grant looked up with a slight start, what had he done now? Dad was staring back at him with hard eyes, wearing his signature expression that always appeared whenever he addressed his son. Though he'd faced it for years, Grant still hadn't quite figured the expression out yet, but you didn't have to be clever to know it wasn't one of warmth.

"Yeah?" Grant eventually replied, holding their gaze as if it was a competition; it probably was. Dad had cut his hair last year, ridiculously short. It used to be a mess of dirty blond curls, and he'd been known as a bit of a stunner around the streets (Grant had overheard some tarty mums gossiping about him outside the local Asda), but that was history nowadays. Yet despite his demotion in sex-lord status, he still kept cutting it short, practically shaving it, God knows why because it made him look like a proper mug paired with his ripped denim jeans and wifebeater.