and sweet and earthy, and it made my heart beat fast.
My father gulped down his tea, shifting continually in his chair. Henry sat very still and watched him. He had grown a small goatee beard since the last time I’d seen him. It suited him.
Everything suited Henry.
My father suddenly rose and turned to me. He seemed uncertain as to what to say. Then he touched me on the shoulder, nodded and turned towards the door.
‘I ought to be going.’
‘But I haven’t shown you round the boat,’ said Henry.
‘A boat’s a boat,’ said Ray. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
‘There’s no need to be rude, Dad.’
‘That’s enough from you. I’ll not be taking any lessons in manners from
you
.’
Henry looked mildly across at me. ‘It’s OK. I don’t mind.’
I made no more protest. In all honesty, I was desperate for Ray to leave.
Ray turned back to Henry. He looked faintly chastened.
‘Henry. Look. I appreciate this. I do. You’ve been gone a long time. I suppose I’m not sure I’m quite used to you popping up again. But listen. I’m grateful.
Really.’
He reached in his pocket and drew out a thin roll of ten-pound notes.
‘This is to see Adam through the summer. I hope it’s enough.’
‘Dad. Why can’t you just give it to me?’
Henry threw me a glance that required – no, requested – my silence. He took the money and put it in the pocket of his robe.
‘I’ll make sure he budgets wisely, Raymond, don’t worry.’
‘OK, then.’ He turned to me. ‘See? Your Uncle Henry agrees.’
I said nothing. There was an awkward pause, then Ray rested his hand on my shoulder. I wasn’t sure how to respond. After a few moments, I felt its weight lift, and Ray headed towards the
front door. Neither Henry nor I moved. Ray turned again before he left the room, as if to say something. His mouth opened, but no words emerged. He snapped it closed again and nodded, twice, as if
that settled everything. I raised a hand briefly in farewell.
‘Say goodbye to your dad,’ said Henry, surprisingly sharply.
‘Goodbye, Dad,’ I said. I looked at him standing in the doorway, forlorn.
‘Look after yourself, kiddo. Good luck, Henry.’
‘
Adiós
, Ray.’
Then he was gone. After thirty seconds, I heard the car start. There was the squeal of tyres, followed by the sound of the motor fading into the distance. Ginsberg reappeared, raised his head as
if to acknowledge the new status quo, then waddled briskly out again.
Henry came and sat back at the table with me. He reached into his pocket and handed me the wad of notes. I pocketed them.
‘Thanks.’
‘People should be free to make their own mistakes,’ said Henry.
‘Really?’
‘A cornerstone of my philosophy. “The fool who persists in his folly will become wise.” Blake.’
‘Blake who?’
My coffee was almost drained. I remained determined to be unimpressed. We sat in silence, finishing our dregs. Henry offered me a Lucky. I took it and he lit it for me. He smiled, as if he
considered some kind of deal to have been struck. I smiled too, for a different reason, silently sealing a pact with myself that I wasn’t about to be Henry’s stooge, or his disciple. He
was part of the adult world and as such was not to be trusted, however particular an example of the species he considered himself to be. Adults always let you down, with their parade of good
intentions, their self-sabotage, their brutal, unheralded transience.
‘Shall I show you round the rest of the boat?’
‘A boat’s a boat,’ I said, deadpan.
Henry laughed. I rose and followed him towards the stern. In the centre of the boat was the small staircase leading up to the second level. We walked past that to the two rooms beyond it, one on
either side of a small passageway. Henry opened the doorway to his right, to reveal an interior that was little bigger than a cupboard. There was a single mattress on the floor, a few blankets and
a chest of drawers. It was stifling. The
My father gulped down his tea, shifting continually in his chair. Henry sat very still and watched him. He had grown a small goatee beard since the last time I’d seen him. It suited him.
Everything suited Henry.
My father suddenly rose and turned to me. He seemed uncertain as to what to say. Then he touched me on the shoulder, nodded and turned towards the door.
‘I ought to be going.’
‘But I haven’t shown you round the boat,’ said Henry.
‘A boat’s a boat,’ said Ray. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
‘There’s no need to be rude, Dad.’
‘That’s enough from you. I’ll not be taking any lessons in manners from
you
.’
Henry looked mildly across at me. ‘It’s OK. I don’t mind.’
I made no more protest. In all honesty, I was desperate for Ray to leave.
Ray turned back to Henry. He looked faintly chastened.
‘Henry. Look. I appreciate this. I do. You’ve been gone a long time. I suppose I’m not sure I’m quite used to you popping up again. But listen. I’m grateful.
Really.’
He reached in his pocket and drew out a thin roll of ten-pound notes.
‘This is to see Adam through the summer. I hope it’s enough.’
‘Dad. Why can’t you just give it to me?’
Henry threw me a glance that required – no, requested – my silence. He took the money and put it in the pocket of his robe.
‘I’ll make sure he budgets wisely, Raymond, don’t worry.’
‘OK, then.’ He turned to me. ‘See? Your Uncle Henry agrees.’
I said nothing. There was an awkward pause, then Ray rested his hand on my shoulder. I wasn’t sure how to respond. After a few moments, I felt its weight lift, and Ray headed towards the
front door. Neither Henry nor I moved. Ray turned again before he left the room, as if to say something. His mouth opened, but no words emerged. He snapped it closed again and nodded, twice, as if
that settled everything. I raised a hand briefly in farewell.
‘Say goodbye to your dad,’ said Henry, surprisingly sharply.
‘Goodbye, Dad,’ I said. I looked at him standing in the doorway, forlorn.
‘Look after yourself, kiddo. Good luck, Henry.’
‘
Adiós
, Ray.’
Then he was gone. After thirty seconds, I heard the car start. There was the squeal of tyres, followed by the sound of the motor fading into the distance. Ginsberg reappeared, raised his head as
if to acknowledge the new status quo, then waddled briskly out again.
Henry came and sat back at the table with me. He reached into his pocket and handed me the wad of notes. I pocketed them.
‘Thanks.’
‘People should be free to make their own mistakes,’ said Henry.
‘Really?’
‘A cornerstone of my philosophy. “The fool who persists in his folly will become wise.” Blake.’
‘Blake who?’
My coffee was almost drained. I remained determined to be unimpressed. We sat in silence, finishing our dregs. Henry offered me a Lucky. I took it and he lit it for me. He smiled, as if he
considered some kind of deal to have been struck. I smiled too, for a different reason, silently sealing a pact with myself that I wasn’t about to be Henry’s stooge, or his disciple. He
was part of the adult world and as such was not to be trusted, however particular an example of the species he considered himself to be. Adults always let you down, with their parade of good
intentions, their self-sabotage, their brutal, unheralded transience.
‘Shall I show you round the rest of the boat?’
‘A boat’s a boat,’ I said, deadpan.
Henry laughed. I rose and followed him towards the stern. In the centre of the boat was the small staircase leading up to the second level. We walked past that to the two rooms beyond it, one on
either side of a small passageway. Henry opened the doorway to his right, to reveal an interior that was little bigger than a cupboard. There was a single mattress on the floor, a few blankets and
a chest of drawers. It was stifling. The
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