world taking shape around me, the bloody head of Christ on the altar, the pink cups of plastic flowers, the white curtains on the windows that opened onto the flat roof, and then I saw my mother in a blue housecoat, her glasses luminous, her face shining from Nivea cream, and my father standing ghost-like below me, with one hand flat on my chest.
Where were you going? she asked.
I was going nowhere, I replied.
You’re at home now, she said.
That’s right, agreed my father.
He led me back to bed.
You were sleepwalking, he explained, as he pulled the sheets to my chin. He sat on the bed with his hands on his knee. His shadow was comfortable and benign. He lit a cigarette and tapped the ash into the grate of the small black fireplace.
You’re a great walker, he said.
*
A few years later it was him I would meet on the stairs, a thin gaunt figure in a pyjama top open onto his chest, and pyjama bottoms thatreached to just below his knees. He was, he thought, on his way to the barracks. I led him back to bed as he had once led me.
Where I was for the night he found me I can’t say. But most nights we set off for Finea. That was how we always met, somewhere on the landing or on the stairs, thinking it was the bridge or the barracks, always at one remove from consciousness, in a twilight world where certain journeys had to be completed out of an obscure sense of duty and longing.
Chapter 10
My father met people through Miriam, through whist drives, poker schools, the Ulster Arms and the Farnham Hotel.
His closest friend in the long run was Frank Brady, one of the Brady Family who ran the Ulster Arms. Frank then was in his late twenties, my father in his early fifties. Frankie had a pale laughing face, a brilliantined quiff and long painterly fingers. He always had a Daily Express in his sports-jacket pocket. He had trained as a pastry chef in Glasgow but now spent his days working behind the bar in his family’s hotel.
They played cards over the bar and drew bottles of stout. They chatted about horses and jockeys – Joe Sime, Des Cullen, Lester Piggott. Mid-conversation Frankie would fall asleep, his chin would drop onto his chest and the night would continue for a while without him, then he’d suddenly re-enter the conversation as if he’d never left it.
My father won a pair of Clark’s black shoes at a whist drive in the Town Hall, and he brought them up to the Ulster Arms to show Frankie.
Well, Jack, said Frankie, they’re a neat pair.
They are.
After closing time he came home with the box neatly wrapped under his arm. He entered the kitchen. My mother was ironing sheets.
Take a dekko at that, he said.
Maisie undid the wrapping.
I won these at whist, he explained.
She opened the box. Inside were a pair of brown mud-spattered shoes, without tongue or soles.
The curse of the crows on Frankie Brady, said my father.
*
The business premises had large canopies over the shop windows and above the gate that opened into the entry. Over the years I painted them all kinds of colours.
The shop sold the produce of the bakery. Inside the shop was a small room where all the cakeboxes were stacked. There were a few small tables where people sat having ice-cream soda with spoonfuls of ice cream in tall glasses. To the left you went out to the toilet, past the room under the stairs where Croney slept. Straight on through was a door with a glass porthole that opened into the public tearoom. Beyond that was the private dining room that was never private, for beyond it was the kitchen and the scullery and the waitresses were always on the go.
A door in the kitchen opened onto the yard. An entry ran the length of the house. Opposite the kitchen was the old bakery in which eggs in barrels of brine, boxes of margarine and bags of flour were stacked. Further up the yard was the new bakery. One corner of it contained a vast coke oven that could take four trays at a time. Above the old bakery was a long slatted attic –
Where were you going? she asked.
I was going nowhere, I replied.
You’re at home now, she said.
That’s right, agreed my father.
He led me back to bed.
You were sleepwalking, he explained, as he pulled the sheets to my chin. He sat on the bed with his hands on his knee. His shadow was comfortable and benign. He lit a cigarette and tapped the ash into the grate of the small black fireplace.
You’re a great walker, he said.
*
A few years later it was him I would meet on the stairs, a thin gaunt figure in a pyjama top open onto his chest, and pyjama bottoms thatreached to just below his knees. He was, he thought, on his way to the barracks. I led him back to bed as he had once led me.
Where I was for the night he found me I can’t say. But most nights we set off for Finea. That was how we always met, somewhere on the landing or on the stairs, thinking it was the bridge or the barracks, always at one remove from consciousness, in a twilight world where certain journeys had to be completed out of an obscure sense of duty and longing.
Chapter 10
My father met people through Miriam, through whist drives, poker schools, the Ulster Arms and the Farnham Hotel.
His closest friend in the long run was Frank Brady, one of the Brady Family who ran the Ulster Arms. Frank then was in his late twenties, my father in his early fifties. Frankie had a pale laughing face, a brilliantined quiff and long painterly fingers. He always had a Daily Express in his sports-jacket pocket. He had trained as a pastry chef in Glasgow but now spent his days working behind the bar in his family’s hotel.
They played cards over the bar and drew bottles of stout. They chatted about horses and jockeys – Joe Sime, Des Cullen, Lester Piggott. Mid-conversation Frankie would fall asleep, his chin would drop onto his chest and the night would continue for a while without him, then he’d suddenly re-enter the conversation as if he’d never left it.
My father won a pair of Clark’s black shoes at a whist drive in the Town Hall, and he brought them up to the Ulster Arms to show Frankie.
Well, Jack, said Frankie, they’re a neat pair.
They are.
After closing time he came home with the box neatly wrapped under his arm. He entered the kitchen. My mother was ironing sheets.
Take a dekko at that, he said.
Maisie undid the wrapping.
I won these at whist, he explained.
She opened the box. Inside were a pair of brown mud-spattered shoes, without tongue or soles.
The curse of the crows on Frankie Brady, said my father.
*
The business premises had large canopies over the shop windows and above the gate that opened into the entry. Over the years I painted them all kinds of colours.
The shop sold the produce of the bakery. Inside the shop was a small room where all the cakeboxes were stacked. There were a few small tables where people sat having ice-cream soda with spoonfuls of ice cream in tall glasses. To the left you went out to the toilet, past the room under the stairs where Croney slept. Straight on through was a door with a glass porthole that opened into the public tearoom. Beyond that was the private dining room that was never private, for beyond it was the kitchen and the scullery and the waitresses were always on the go.
A door in the kitchen opened onto the yard. An entry ran the length of the house. Opposite the kitchen was the old bakery in which eggs in barrels of brine, boxes of margarine and bags of flour were stacked. Further up the yard was the new bakery. One corner of it contained a vast coke oven that could take four trays at a time. Above the old bakery was a long slatted attic –
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