Page 85 of The Cottage in the Highlands

Flynn senior’s expression grew tighter.

“Do you know,” started Flynn, his voice threatening to crack with emotion, “I used to think I was missing out when the other kids would speak about going out to the park with their grandfathers. Sounds like I didn’t miss out on much after all.”

Flynn senior’s expression fell further. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You have no idea what it was like!”

“What is it, Mr Talbot?” piped up Mrs Oates. “What’s wrong?”

He looked wildly to the three of us, as if trying to focus for a moment. “You don’t understand. I thought she might change,” said Flynn senior in a dry whisper. “At least, I hoped she would.” He leant forward in his armchair. “No one knew. I couldn’t tell them. How could I? No one would believe me.”

I leant forward now, my concern spiking. “Mr Talbot?”

He stared past us, lost in his memories.

“Mr Talbot,” I said again. “What is it?”

Gone was the bluff, enraged man from before.

He agonised for a few moments longer, before his paint-daubed fingers reached for the sleeves of his shirt. He gave each of us in turn a frightened look.

Both of his hands were slow, painstaking, as they began to roll back his shirt sleeves.

Flynn senior lifted his bare arms and twisted them at an angle for us to see. The light from the windows highlighted the sudden, aging planes on his distinguished features.

Mrs Oates gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth.

I let out a small, horrified noise.

Flynn’s silvery eyes widened in alarm.

“She did this,” croaked the older man, brandishing his marked, disfigured arms to us. “She did this to me for years. Your wonderful, charity-focused grandmother.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The hush in Flynn Talbot’s drawing room was palpable.

The ticking from a clock somewhere was the only sound, accompanied by the occasional bird in the garden, flapping its way across the lawns.

Flynn’s grandfather sat, his shirt sleeves remaining rolled up his arms, so the three of us could witness the pitted ghosts of cigarette burns, weals, and wounds that cluttered his skin.

“I still look like a bloody pin cushion, even after all these years.”

Flynn struggled to speak. He whipped his head to me, then to Mrs Oates, and back to his grandfather. “Jesus.” He dragged a hand down his horrified face. “Are you telling me…?”

“These are not self-inflicted,” confirmed his grandfather in a hushed voice.

Flynn continued to stare at his grandfather’s arms in morbid fascination. “Oh God. You’re saying that Grandma did that to you?”

Flynn senior gave the barest nod.

Flynn rubbed at his shocked face. “Oh shit. I had no idea.” His silver-grey eyes were pre-occupied. “Who else knows? Did you tell anyone else?”

Flynn senior shook his head. “I told you. I couldn’t face telling anyone about it. I was mortified. Too ashamed.”

Flynn blinked over at his grandfather, as though he were seeing him for the first time. A thought sprang into his head. “Hang on. Is that why you made excuses not to see me?”

Flynn senior rolled his shirt sleeves down again. Hurt and embarrassment cluttered in his marine-blue eyes. He struggled to answer. “Yes. I didn’t want my only grandson to see me like that. I wanted you to think of me as a successful artist, not a victim.”

Colour drained away from Flynn’s cheeks. “So, you pushed me away. You pushed all the family away.”