Lew made for the Jack Daniels. I got the glasses. I wanted to ask him how Mum was doing, how he was coping, but Lew had other things on his mind.
“I’m going to be eighty-seven this year,” he said.
“Good for you,” I said cheerfully.
“Let me take the weight off me plates of meat.” He lowered himself gently into a chair.
“Cheers,” I said handing him a glass.
“I haven’t got much longer, son,” Lew sounded grave.
“I wouldn’t say that, Dad. You’ve quit smoking. You’re still getting about, you go up the top. You get the food in. Get the newspaper. Put your bets on.”
“It’s getting harder. A lot harder.”
“You can get some help. Have you thought about that? Take taxis.”
“Your mother won’t stand for that.”
He sniffed his drink, then downed it in one gulp. He let out a long, raspy breath and smiled a toothless grin.
“Where are your teeth?” I asked.
“In my pocket.”
“They’re alright, I wrapped them in me ‘ankerchief, now don’t worry about that. ”
“Well, that’s one way of keeping them clean, Dad.”