As the rain pattered down on the roof, George Murray reflected just how miserable the day was. His father lay quietly under the pristine white sheets and sterile white blanket, his shrunken frame testimony to just how far his illness had gone. His white hair showed no trace of the brilliant red hue it had borne throughout his life, and when he opened his sunken eyes to smile at his only son, the vivid azure had been replaced by a watery grey blue. But the snub nose remained the same.
“Stow the tears,” the old man admonished his son. “I’ve had a good and full life. And your mam’s waiting for me. What kind of a husband would I be if I tarried any longer than needed?”
George had to laugh at that. “You’re a terror,” he told his father
The old man grinned. “Have to be. Someone’s got to keep you in line, you disrespectful rascal.”
George’s laugh was real this time. “No, it’s Heather who’s the rascal, her and that boy she married.”
“Jamie’s the rascal,” the old man insisted, chucking. “He pinched your pretty daughter and made her dream of grander things than our humble little business.” He sighed and the battle light died from his eyes. It had happened far too much of late for George’s liking.
“And now she’s a member of the House of Commons,” he said gallantly. “Her and Jaime are doing wondrous things now. Not bad for a boy from Strathfoyle and a girl from Kilrea.”
“No indeed,” the old man admitted. He smiled again. “And this boy from Fivemiletown has done okay for himself. And all because of his name.”
George smiled. “You never would tell me how you did it. But will you now?”
Calum Murray smiled wider than before as the light returned to his eyes. Strength seemed to flow back into him as he pulled himself into a more upright position. “Why not?”
And even though the rain started falling harder than before, George no longer cared. All that mattered was how his father had taken his unfortunate first name - combined with his ancient family name - and turned it into an empire.
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