The Fourth Verse

On Wednesday the first of December, at twenty past two, Daniel was standing in the arrivals hall at Gatwick.

The flight from Seville had landed forty minutes before. People came through the doors in waves: families with too many bags, students with none, a woman with a box of oranges.

Since the call on the ferry, Grandad had only sent short messages. Flight booked. Wednesday. Don't tell your mother I'm not bringing a coat.

Then the doors opened again, and there he was.

Antonio Ruiz was small and straight, in a grey jacket that was much too light for England, with a flat cap on his white hair. He was pulling one small suitcase. On his back, on a strap, he was carrying a guitar in a shining black hard case.

Daniel had never seen his grandfather with a guitar. Nobody in the family had.

— Dani, said Grandad, and he put his arms round him in the middle of the hall.

— One small suitcase? said Daniel. For three weeks?

— I came to England with one small suitcase in 1964 too. A man needs a guitar and dry socks. Nothing else.

— And a coat, Grandad. It's four degrees.

Daniel looked at the black case.

— Is that…?

— The same guitar, said Grandad. It was on top of my wardrobe for sixty years. Your grandmother knew it was there. She never asked, and I never told her. The guitar is sixty-five years old. The case is eight days old.

On the train to Victoria it started to rain, and Grandad smiled for a second.

— England, he said quietly. Still raining. Some things are faithful.

Mr Patel was waiting on the steps of the Linden in his best suit. He shook Grandad's hand with both of his.

— I have given you room 9, Mr Ruiz. It is a quiet room, and people in room 9 have always found what they were looking for. Mostly.

— Mostly is very good, said Grandad. At my age, mostly is excellent.

— And Daniel, you will sleep in room 4 until Christmas, said Mr Patel. Your grandfather shouldn't be alone in a strange hotel.

At the desk, Rav gave Daniel the key. Then, with a strange face, he handed him a small white envelope.

— This came for your grandfather an hour ago. A young man in a nice coat brought it. He didn't leave a name.

On the front, in type, it said Mr Antonio Ruiz. Inside there was a card with gold letters at the top: Moss Music, Liverpool.

Mr Ruiz. Welcome back to England. I shall call this evening at eight o'clock. G. Moss.

Grandad read it once. Then he looked up at Daniel.

— Who knew I was coming today, Dani?

— Nobody. The family, Mr Patel. Molly and Erin. And Eddie, I suppose.

— Then somebody talks too much, he said. Or somebody listens too well.