The Museum of Doubt by James Meek Page B

end and a triangular park with grass at the other like badly laquered hair. He had the family’s Mercian bible which he’d told Cate and Adam he didn’t read and a bronchitic black labrador. He hoarded specific items at Christmas: cans of McEwan’s Export and tins of Fray Bentos steak and kidney pudding.
    I wasn’t expecting you so early, he said. He had the kind of face that everything which had happened to him in the past sixty years had been unexpected, but he’d made the best of it. He was astonished to find his fridge full of shiny red cans of fizzy beer, and astounded to see the size of the pot of simmering water on the cooker, and the number of inverted pudding domes hottering inside it. He was incredulous that his daughter should turn out to be married to a man called Adam, and sceptical that they should decide to visit him on December 25, of all days. When Adam recognised the theme to the Guns of Navarone, as played by the band of the Coldstream Guards, he twisted round and looked at the Bush mono player in amazement.
    Happy Chrismas, Dad, said Cate, handing over the socks. The incredible act of gift-giving just about sent him doing a double somersault backwards through the window. His mouth dropped open and his eyes bulged like a fish in a net. It’s from both of us.
    Thanks very much, he gasped. He’d barely sat down in his armchair and started getting over the shock when he was sent reeling again by the discovery of two small parcels on the windowledge, hidden by a line of cards. He issued the gifts,a leather wallet for Adam and a gold chain for Cate. Cate went over and kissed him and Adam tried to make a joke about money not included, eh.
    Anyway, he said. Eh … Ellsta.
    Cate smiled and looked at her dad. He shrugged and wrestled with the arms of his chair, looking down and away, trying to smile and looking like a condemned man waiting for the second buzz after the first application of 2,000 volts had failed to finish the job.
    Ellsta very much, said Adam.
    Adam, said Cate.
    Anyway, Mr Finzy, Cate’s given me this brilliant book so’s I can learn Mercian and next Christmas I’ll be speaking it properly.
    Cate’s dad nodded slowly, calmer now but more worried-looking. It’ll take up a lot of your time, he said. It’s not going to help you find a job.
    He wants to, Dad. We’ve got time.
    It never helped me.
    Adam took a drink of Export. There was silence in the room. Cate was checking her nails, frowning. Her dad was looking into the middle distance, nodding his head as if a spring had broken. He coughed.
    Did you put the vegetables on, Mr Finzy? said Adam. Those puddings’ll be ready before long.
    I forgot. Cate’s dad didn’t make a move.
    Mm? said Cate, who’d been looking out the window.
    I’ll go and see to it, said Adam.
    I’ll do it, said Cate, not making a move.
    Adam got up. Cate and her dad were looking at him. He let them sweat for a couple of seconds. The sun came out and all the glass in town blazed with cold reflected fire. He went to thekitchen, leaving the door open. This also had meaning in their festive entertainment.
    He put a couple of pots of salted water on to boil, located the frozen sprouts and started peeling the tatties. The dog waddled in and collapsed panting on the lino with the effort. Adam tossed a scrap of potato peel in front of his nose. The beast didn’t even sniff it, he just looked at Adam pityingly. Don’t look so superior, said Adam. Your children will eat scraps and be glad of them. They’ll make a dog that eats all the rubbish we throw away. Eh Samm? Want to have your genes altered and eat teabags? He knelt down in front of the dog and scratched it behind its ears. You’re not a Mercian dog, are you? he whispered. Just keep listening to me havering. We had this same conversation last Christmas, eh. It’s crap, isn’t it?
    Samm got up and walked out of the kitchen. Cate and her dad were talking. You couldn’t make out the words, not that you’d