Grandad stood at the kitchen sink

Grandad stood at the kitchen sink, eating an apple with his gutting knife. His bloodstained vest strained against his chest as he sliced so delicately with the rinsed-down blade. His jaw muscles worked under leathery skin; white stubble caught the light. He looked at the fish piled on the Sunday dinner dish and at the guts in the sink. He was thinking. “Nipper!” I jumped. “Clear up these guts and get ready. We’re going out.” A pause. “And don’t feed that cat. V, the fish is clean. I’m taking the boy out.” He put on his weekday cap and went into the yard to wash.

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