Page 4 of The Alpha Escort Agency
"Is that Rory?" a shrill voice calls out from the room towards the right.
"Yes, love," his grandad calls, then says over his shoulder to Rory, "You want a cuppa?”
"Yes, but I'll make it, Grandad."
"Go kiss your nan first."
Rory nods and follows him through the doorway. His nan sits in the special hard-backed arm chair he'd bought her, the one that tilts to lift her onto her feet; her walking frame stood by her knees. She's muted the television, and silent cheery presenters flicker in the corner of the room. It's neat, the photos he's framed and nailed on the walls, a mixture of his shots and various members of the family, recently dusted and the carpet freshly hoovered.
He bends down and kisses his nan's powdery cheek, and she strokes back his hair with her spindly fingers.
“When you getting this cut?” she asks.
He lets out a huff of air. “I’m not. Sonya been?”
"Yes, yesterday."
"Looks good."
His nan snorts. "Only because I'm sat here watching her like a hawk. If I weren't, she'd slack off."
"Ahh Sonya's a good girl," his grandad says, lowering himself gingerly onto the small sofa that leans against the wall.
"Got you flowers, Nan," Rory says, showing her the bunch. She gathers the heads into her hands and inhales the sweet aroma. "Beautiful. Put them in a vase will you, love."
"Yep. You want some tea too?"
She nods, and he heads through into the small kitchen which also appears cleaned. Filling and flicking on the kettle, he peers inside the fridge checking for any food that's gone past its use-by-date, but it's all okay and there is a decent amount in there.
The kettle rumbles and steam rises towards the ceiling. He makes a pot of tea, slices up the cake and arranges the flowers in a vase. Then he takes it all through on a tray, placing the flowers on the windowsill and passing cups and cake carefully to his grandparents, before taking a seat on the sofa.
They sip their tea, the old clock on the mantelpiece, which has been there for as long as he can remember, ticking patiently.
"Where you been this morning, lad?" his granddad asks.
"The reservoir. I read on the board that a crane's been seen there."
"A Eurasian crane, huh? You spot him." His grandad dips his cake in his tea and takes a bite of the soggy sponge.
"No, but got a nice shot, anyway." Reaching forward, Rory picks up his camera from the coffee table and shows his grandad the photograph.
"That's a good one, that is."
Then he steps over so his nan can see too.
"Ahh lovely, Rory. What you going to do with it?"
He sits back down, gazing at the scene from this morning.
"Not sure yet." He rubs his chin.
The drive home takes twenty minutes, but he hits the lunchtime traffic and crawls through the centre of town, turning on the radio and listening to the docile notes of Classic FM and winding down the window to let the breeze wash over him. The house he owns is just a Victorian terrace, but he likes the intricate coving, the old iron fireplaces and the brass knocker on the front door. Plus, it's his, all his, and he's spent time and attention in the small back garden creating his own sanctuary.
He heads there now, checking the bird feeders and topping up the bath, then he grabs himself a cheese pickle sandwich and switches on the laptop.
There's two new emails waiting for him in his inbox. One from the national geographical magazine. The other from the Alpha Escort Agency. His cursor hovers suspended between the two as he decides which to open first. In the end, he gets out his camera and hooks it to the computer just to delay the decision.
The shot from this morning surprises him when it's blown up on the screen. Somehow it's not quite as good as he hoped; the composition too balanced, too twee, and the light a tad too striking. Perhaps he’ll play with it later in the spare room he’s converted into a dark room, see if he can play with the exposure.
