A Kind Of Kindness
Esme's grandmother had been awake. Esme suspected she had been awake every night since the camping had started, in case the phone rang.
Her grandmother was already in her dressing gown when Esme reached the kitchen.
"Grandma. The phone rang. It's — it's a man called Owen Lloyd. He is calling for Megan. From a care home in Manchester. He is — Grandma, he's ninety-one and he is crying. Please come."
Her grandmother put on her wellington boots. She walked, with Esme, faster than Esme had ever seen her walk, across the wet field to the phone box.
Bo was still on the line. He was — Esme heard, as they came up — telling Mr Lloyd about the village's recent fundraiser for the chapel roof. He was, miraculously, doing fine. The old man on the other end was, for the first time in a while, laughing slightly.
Esme's grandmother took the receiver.
"Owen?"
There was a long, long silence on the other end.
Then: "Anwen Hughes. Is that you?"
Esme's grandmother — Anwen — said, very gently: "Yes, Owen. It is me. It has been forty-eight years."
"Anwen. I — Anwen, I have been calling this box on and off for seven years. I did not know — I did not know it was reaching anyone."
"It is reaching me, tonight, Owen. It is also reaching my granddaughter Esme and my great-nephew Bo. You have a small audience of three. Please, tell us about Megan."
Esme's grandmother — Anwen — handed the receiver