The Eyes by Michael Bloor

Alan first saw it in his mid-teens. He’d travelled with his mother to the hospital in Swansea to say goodbye to his Uncle Dan, a miner from the Gwendraeth Valley. The Gwendraeth pits mined anthracite, the premium smokeless coal. That anthracite dust was harder and sharper than ordinary coal dust – more dangerous to the lungs. It was said that the Gwendraeth miners suffered more than any other miners from ‘the pneumo’ – pneumoconiosis. Uncle Dan, was tall for a miner: propped up to ease his breathing, his legs still stretched out a good way along the bed, but they were very thin. Over the oxygen mask, his eyes followed Alan and his mum as they sat down. The eyes were bleary and watery as he watched Alan’s mum heaving and sobbing. Alan felt his uncle’s eyes were saying something, but what the message was he couldn’t tell.

It was the same, years later, when he visited his Aunt Myfanwy in the cancer ward. She was wearily angry with the nurses about something. From her mumbles, Alan couldn’t make out what or why. But when she looked up at him, it wasn’t anger he saw in her eyes: it was something else.

And now he was seeing it again. His visit to his dad in the care home had coincided exactly with one of his dad’s periodic break-outs. They usually followed the same pattern: he’d shuffle down the road in his slippers and pajamas and then, at a loss, he’d wander into the pub on the corner. The publican would pour him a half pint and phone the care home. Alan volunteered to fetch him back.

He walked into the bar. Not long open, it was quiet. His dad sat at a table in the corner, beside the bar; he hadn’t touched his beer and he’d lost a slipper. Alan explained to the barmaid that the old guy was his dad and he’d come to collect him. The barmaid called over the publican, who refused payment for the beer and handed over the slipper.

Alan walked over to the corner and said, ‘Hello, Dad.’ His dad looked up but didn’t recognise him. Alan hadn’t expected to be recognised, but he thought he did see something else in his dad’s eyes. He thought he saw a longing for the past.

Michael Bloor lives in Dunblane, Scotland, where he has discovered the exhilarations of short fiction, with more than a hundred pieces published in Free Flash Fiction, Literally Stories, Everyday Fiction, The Copperfield Review, Litro Online, Firewords, The Drabble, The Cabinet of Heed, Moonpark Review and elsewhere, see – michaelbloor.com

Photo – Cristian Ştefănescu on flickr

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