Chapter Eight
The Leaving
Parting of hair is easier than the parting of one’s cheeks
Charlie listened to George and ventured back home. As he drove up the drive, the first he saw was his Mac sitting by the bin, looking as dejected as last night’s Indian. Charlie took a deep breath and, dodging the wind chimes that now swung from the doorway, walked in.
Francis looked up from her mobile. “Here he is,” she said to the twins, “you want a word?” She handed the phone to Charlie.
Charlie, ignoring his wife, silently zigzagged his way through the co-op bags into the lounge and picked up his collection of “Wilt” books and Smiths CDs.
He then headed for his room.
“He’s busy,” said Francis. She listened to his footsteps upstairs.
Charlie had always dealt with the twins and their problems, Ch
