Jim Burke pulled into the nursing home carpark, wondering how this afternoon’s visit would go. The doctors said his elderly father has all kinds of medical conditions, but to Jim, it was just that Jack was old. He was in his eighties, and was often confused and forgetful. He would sometimes ask Jim if he’d had a good holiday. Jim would calmly explain that he hadn’t been away.

‘Thought you’d been to Tenerife?’

No, dad, Jim would simply reply.

The staff in the nursing home were really good with Jack and the rest of the residents. Jim was always amazed at how they always seemed to know the right thing to say, not only to the residents, we could often be angry and mixed up, but also to the distressed visitors, upset at the deterioration of their loved ones.

This Sunday afternoon, Jim found his father sitting in a high-backed arm chair in the lounge. They called the room the day room, a term which always made Jim think of prison. Jack was in the day room watching an old episode of Columbo on television. A few of the other residents were also watching the TV, others worked on jigsaw puzzles or read large-print library books.

Jim pulled up a chair beside his father.

‘Hiya, dad. How’s it going?’

His father slowly turned to face him. It took the elderly man a few moments to register who had come to visit him.

‘Hey, Jim. Not in work today?’

‘Not today, dad. It’s Sunday.’

Jack nodded, yes, of course, before pointing to the TV screen.

‘Columbo. It’s a cracking episode. This publisher kills his partner.’

‘Is Columbo on to him?’ asked Jim.

‘Oh aye, he always catches ‘em. He caught this feller last week because he tied the victim’s shoe laces the wrong way round. A dead man can’t tie his own shoes.’

Jim laughed, he had heard the line a lot over recent weeks.

A woman in her forties in the nursing home blue uniform appeared.

‘Hiya, love. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

Jim nodded, yes please. She turned to Jack and asked him.

‘Never say no to a drink, that’s what my old dad used to say. Mind you, I think he meant whiskey.’

Like Jim, he was sure she’d heard this line many times, but she laughed at Jack’s banter. When she returned with two mugs of tea, Jack was lost in the TV detective programme. The nurse handed Jim his brew.

‘How’s he doing?’ Jim asked.

‘Yeah, he’s doing okay. He has good days and bad, like the rest of us. He was telling us all about the Nineteen Sixties and how he knew the Beatles in the early days.’

‘Really?’

‘Apparently he was in a Manchester band and they toured Hamburg with John, Paul and George. He says he showed Paul a few tricks on the bass.’

‘I don’t think that’s right.’ Jack said. ‘He was a plasterer as soon as he left school at fourteen. He’s never been in a band as far as I know. He certainly never mentioned it.’

‘Bless him. They do get confused sometimes.’ she smiled.

Jim shook his head. Sometimes Jack had afternoons like that. Jim once visited his dad only to find that he had been explaining how his late wife, Jim’s mother, had been a Native American, and a chief’s daughter, no less. In fact, his wife had been of Irish heritage.

A few hours later, having had another cup of tea, a nice chat with his dad about when he used to take Jim to watch Manchester United as a boy, and once Columbo had arrested the murderer, Jim said his goodbyes and left his dad. He pecked him on the cheek, see you next week, mate.

As Jim neared the door, he heard his father reply, almost to himself, see you, son.

The following week, Jim found his father in his usual spot in the day room. The nurse came over with two cups of tea.

‘Hiya,’ Jim said. ‘How have you been?’

‘I’m good, thanks. Your dad has been keeping us all entertained.’

‘What’s he been saying now?’

‘Apparently, Jack was friends with most of the Manchester United squad, back in the day. They all used to go drinking around the city’s coolest bars in the late 60s and early 70s.’

‘I think he’s getting mixed up again. He’s always been a United fan but never mentioned even meeting one of the players never mind being drinking buddies with them.’

‘It isn’t unusual for people of his age to get mixed up. Memories can get jumbled up. My gran was from Dublin, when she got old she would have days where she thought she was back there.’

Jim nodded, glancing at his father who was concentrating on the television screen.

‘The main thing,’ she said. ‘is that he’s settled and happy here. He has you and his friends here. He is very lucky.’

She patted his arm gently before going to tackle a draughts game that had suddenly become heated on the other side of the room.

Six months later, Jim’s phone rang at three o’clock in the morning. He knew before he answered what the news would be. His father had died.

The day of the funeral was just a blur, a montage of friends and family, all dressed in black, pale faces, dour expressions, what a good lad his father had been. Memories of childhood seaside holidays in rainy Welsh caravans, of his dad telling him tall tales, that when he was a boy there were dinosaurs roaming through the streets of Salford, and how little Jim had believed every word.

As the coffin was lowered down, friends and family sobbed, Jim wiped away a tear. See you, dad.

The service and burial was over and the mourners drifted away, heading to cars, to the wake, to raise a glass to the auld feller.

It was only then Jim noticed the flowers. One wreath, placed by the open graveside, was in the shape of a guitar. The small white card simply read, Love, Sir Paul. Jim was stunned. Did the wreath mean that his father’s tales about the Beatles had been true after all?

His thoughts were interrupted by somone nudging his arm. He turned to see his uncle Chris.

‘He was a dark horse, your dad.’

‘How’s that?’

Chris jerked a thumb towards the three elderly gentlemen heading for the carpark.

‘Those lads were the finest players ever to play for United.’

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom