We take a cab to the Guinness Storehouse, which is one of Ed’s favourite places. He loves the glass lift that goes to the top. He says it’s like the lift in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which is one of his favourite books-made-into-films films. I love the views of the city from the bar. The pigeon houses, sturdy and dependable, in their candy stripe, lording it over Dublin Bay.
Already, the lights are coming on around the city, like cats’ eyes, getting brighter as the pale light of afternoon drains away. I drink red wine, which is frowned on at the Guinness Storehouse, but not forbidden. I like the aesthetics of a pint of Guinness. The intricacy of the pour. The angle of the glass below the tap. The pause near the top to allow the stout to settle. The ceremony. I like that. It’s the taste of it I object to. Ed drinks a glass of it, sweetened with blackcurrant.
In the restaurant, Ed eats Guinness and beef stew. He orders the same thing everywhere we go. The chicken wings in Elephant and Castle. The mussels in the Winding Stair. The profiteroles in the Talbot 101. And, of course, the lean-on-me pizza in the Leaning Tower of Pizza. He never deviates. He is a comforting restaurant companion. For a week after payday, Ed insists on paying. He says, ‘I’ll get this,’ when the waitress brings the bill in a leather wallet and hands it to me. He reaches across the table with his big smile and takes the wallet and says, ‘I’ll get this.’ He pays in cash. He has a laser card but he likes the heft of his wallet when there are notes inside. He leaves a tip. A big one. He winks at the waitress and says, ‘Keep the change,’ when she returns to the table.
Adults don’t look at Ed. Not really. Children do. They look and they listen and then they turn to their mothers or fathers or childminders and they say, ‘Why is that man talking like that?’ And they are pulled away by their thin little arms and told to ssshhhh or be quiet or stop staring and they don’t know why, and so they grow into adults who don’t look at people like Ed.
Thomas says, ‘Not everyone is like that.’ He likes to see the good in people.
Ed says, ‘I got Faith a present.’
When I don’t answer, he says, ‘Do you want to see it?’ He unzips the pocket of his anorak, digs his hand in and pulls out a square blue box, a little creased and dented at the edges. He undoes the pale pink ribbon that is tied round the box and lifts the lid. His movements are slow, careful. His tongue, trapped between his front teeth, pokes out of his mouth in concentration.
The necklace is a silver one with a plaque that reads ‘Faith’, in old Irish script. When you see necklaces like these, dangling from a stand in a tourist shop with every name you can think of engraved along their plaques, you think nothing of them. Or if you do, you think they are cheap and tacky.
Perhaps it is the box. The careful way that Ed handles the box. Or the way the necklace nestles inside the box, on a cloud of cotton wool. Or perhaps it is because the necklace is on its own and not jostling for position, dangling from a stand in a tourist shop with all the others. Maybe it’s the engraving on the other side of the plaque. The one that says ‘Love from Uncle Ed’.
After a while, I say, ‘It’s lovely.’ My tone is brisk. Economical.
Ed says, ‘I know.’
I put my glass down and cover his hand with mine.
‘What’s wrong, Kat?’
‘I’m scared.’ I didn’t know I was going to say that.
Ed looks around the restaurant. He turns back to me. ‘There’s nothing there, Kat. Nothing to be scared of.’
I nod. ‘I know.’
‘You’re being silly.’
‘I know.’
‘Why are you crying?’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are.’
I grab a napkin and press it against my eyes. ‘I think I’m getting a cold.’ My voice sounds like someone is squeezing their hands round my throat. Ed looks worried and the doctor said he wasn’t to worry. No worry. No stress. No fried foods. Things like that are bad for his condition. I clear my throat. Put the napkin down. Straighten in my seat.
Ed says, ‘Do you think Faith won’t like you? Is that what you’re scared of ? Because you don’t have a present for her?’
I nod.
Ed says, ‘She will like you, Kat. You’re the best.’
I stand up. ‘We should go.’
Afterwards, when I drop him home, Ed runs round to my side of the car and knocks on the window so I have to lower it. It’s cold enough to snow. He leans in and hugs me. I’m not mad about hugging but Ed is pretty good at it. Especially when it’s cold. He’s always warm.
He pulls away then and looks at me. He looks at me like I am someone good. When he looks at me like that, I nearly believe it. Just for a moment. And then he smiles and turns. I stay like I always do. I stay until he opens the door and gives me one more wave and disappears into the house.
I’m most of the way home when the phone rings. ‘Hello?’
‘Kat? It’s Dad.’ Which is strange because he never rings.
‘Is Ed OK?’
‘You need to come back here. Straight away.’
I pick up Faith’s phone. A number flashes on the screen. A landline number. It’s not a number that I recognise. It doesn’t look like it’s from Brighton, the number. It’s only got about three more rings before it goes onto voicemail. Not enough time to run into the girls’ toilets and get her. If I was allowed to go into the girls’ toilets, which I’m not.
Two more rings.
Faith will probably kill me if I answer it. But then she might be mad if I don’t answer it. It might be important. It could be her real mam. Her birth mam. Ringing to say that she got Faith’s note and that she’s sorry about before but she’d like to meet up and bring us to a dead fancy restaurant for our dinner. She’ll probably try to get us to eat lobster. That’s the kind of stuff they serve in fancy restaurants. I hate lobster, even though I’ve never eaten one. It looks like it might still be alive.
One more ring.
Maybe it’s Rob? Maybe he followed us to Dublin and he’s ringing from a public phone box because his mobile ran out of battery or something? He’s ringing to say he’s sorry for fighting again and he wants Faith to come on the tour with the Crowns. I think Rob is wrong about Faith. I don’t think she’s changed. She just has to do stuff now that she didn’t have to do before, but, apart from that, she’s pretty much the same. She still watches EastEnders and practises her violin and listens to music on her iPod.
I pick up the phone.
I say, ‘Hello?’
‘Oh . . . hello. I was . . . I was looking for Faith. Faith McIntyre?’
‘Who are you?’ It doesn’t sound like a birth mother. Or Rob.
‘I’m, er . . . My name is Kenneth. I mean Leonard.’
That’s a pretty weird answer, when you stop and think about it. I should probably hang up.
‘You must be Milo.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘It was in the note.’
‘Oh.’
There’s silence for a while. I think he’s thinking about what he’s going to say next.
I say, ‘Are you Faith’s birth father?’ I don’t know if that’s a proper word, to be honest.
‘No, I’m her . . . her birth grandfather.’
‘Oh.’ It must be a proper word, after all.
He says, ‘I was wondering . . . if I could speak with Faith. Is she there?’
I say, ‘No, she’s not.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘She’s in the toi— in the Ladies.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘But she’s been in there for ages so I don’t think she’ll be too much longer.’
‘I could phone back.’
‘I expect she’ll be out in a second. She’s probably just putting her make-up on again.’
‘Er, fine then. I’ll . . . I’ll wait. Are you . . . are you still in the area?’
‘What area?’
‘Near our house. Faith left a note. In the letterbox.’
I say, ‘We’re in a café.’ I don’t say the name of it. I don’t say, ‘We’re in the Cream Bun.’
Faith comes out of the toilet. She has brushed her hair and put on more lipstick. I know because there’s a little bit on her front tooth. I think it would taste awful, if you had to kiss a girl who was wearing lipstick.
I say, ‘She’s here now.’
The man says, ‘Oh. Good. Good,’ even though his voice doesn’t sound like the voice of someone who thinks things are good.
Faith says, ’What are you doing with my phone?’
I say, ‘It’s your birth grandfather.’
Faith doesn’t say anything. She sits down.
The grandfather says, ‘Is she OK? Will she talk to me? Could you put her on?’
I hold out the phone to Faith but she shakes her head. I press the phone against my ear again. There is silence down the phone and then the grandfather says, ‘I could come and pick you both up. Bring you up to the house. Would that be an idea?’
I say, ‘Hold on a minute.’ I put the phone on the table beside us and say, in a whisper, ‘He wants to come and collect us. In his car, I think. He wants to take us to his house.’
Faith doesn’t nod or shake her head. She just sits there. She might be thinking about something but it’s hard to tell.
I pick up the phone again but I’m not sure what to say so I just ask, ‘What kind of a car do you have?’
Faith gives me one of her looks. It means that question is not appropriate. I don’t see why not.
‘Er, it’s a Lexus. Past its sell-by date now, I’m afraid. Like myself, I suppose.’ He sort of laughs as if he’s said something funny.
Then he says, ‘So, what does Faith think? Should I come and pick you up?’
I look at Faith. She’s stirring her spoon round and round the cup.
I say, ‘I don’t know.’
He says, ‘That’s all right. You’re in a café, you said?’
‘Yes. I’m having an apple and cinnamon muffin because they don’t have any banana muffins, which happen to be my favourite ones.’
‘I like banana ones too.’
‘They’re dead easy to make.’
‘Oh. Do you bake?’
‘Not really anymore. I used to. My mam showed me. It’s not that hard. You just have to be dead careful with the measurements and the oven temperature.’
Now Faith is looking at me. She is shaking her head. She takes the phone out of my hand. Holds it to her ear. Says, ‘Who is this?’
After a while, she says, ‘Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. I just . . . I shouldn’t have come.’
And then she hangs up.
I say, ‘Are we going back to his house?’
She shakes her head.
‘What are we going to do then?’
She shrugs her shoulders. We sit there. I lick my finger and use it to pick crumbs off my plate until there are none left. I look at my watch. We’ve been here for forty-five minutes. The waitress comes and picks up the plate. She asks Faith if she’s finished with her coffee and Faith nods, even though it’s nearly half full. Mam said that if you’re an optimist, you’d say, half full. I think Faith would call it half empty now.
I wonder if something will happen. I think it’s going to turn into the kind of day where nothing much happens.
And then, all of a sudden, something does happen.
A car pulls up outside the café. A big car. It’s dead shiny and clean. I bet the boot opens by itself. George Pullman’s dad has a car like that and the boot opens by itself. I think you have to press a button first and then it opens, all by itself.
The driver’s door opens and a man gets out and I get this feeling inside me. I know, nearly for sure, that it’s the man from the phone. The grandfather. For starters, he looks like a grandfather. He’s probably around eighty or something and his hair is grey and he’s wearing one of those caps that grandfathers wear. Damo’s granddad has one. He stands outside, on the pavement, and stares into the café like he’s looking for someone. Us, probably. And he looks kind of expensive, like the sort of man who would live in a mansion with maybe ten bedrooms. I don’t know why. I think it’s because he wears his scarf like a tie round his neck and he has a coat that goes right down past his knees instead of a jacket with a hood.
I look at Faith to see if she’s noticed but she’s still fiddling with her phone. I think she’s texting Ant, maybe. Or Adrian.
I look back at the man and now he’s looking straight at us, and he walks to the door and he opens it and now he’s inside the café, still looking straight at us.
The waitress sees him and says, ‘Howeya, Ken.’
The man says, ‘Hello, Eileen.’ His voice is serious, like a newsreader on the telly. He’s at our table now. Faith looks up.
He says, ‘Excuse me.’
Faith says, ‘Yes?’
He says, ‘I’m Leonard. Leonard Kavanagh.’ He holds out his hand but Faith doesn’t shake it like you’re supposed to. She stares at him.
He looks at me and says, ‘You must be Milo.’ He reaches out his hand to me and I shake it like you’re supposed to. Firm and brief. His hand is huge.
I open my mouth to say something except I don’t know what and that’s when the man looks at Faith and says, ‘And you’re Faith. I’d know you anywhere.’
If.
If I hadn’t answered the phone.
Or if I’d left my phone at home.
Or if the phone had been in the bottom of my handbag instead of on the hands-free set.
If I hadn’t heard it.
If I’d turned it off.
If I could go back.
Not just to the phone ringing and me answering it.
But back.
All the way back.
Everything would be different.
Nothing would be the same.
And this conversation would never have happened.
Dad says, ‘No, don’t worry, Ed is fine. He’s in the house. He’s . . . he’s in great form. He’s playing Super Mario.’
I say, ‘He must be winning, so. Who’s he playing with? Sophie?’
Dad says, ‘Well, no. That’s what I’m ringing about, actually.’
Maybe there’s something the matter with Sophie? ‘Is Sophie OK?’
‘Yes, yes, she’s fine. At least, I’m sure Sophie is fine. I haven’t seen her today.’
This is why my father never rings me. Never rings anyone. He is unable to communicate on the phone. You have to be direct with him. In the end, I have to say, ‘Why are you ringing me?’
‘Faith is here.’
I’m stopped at a red light. It’s like the whole world is stopped at the red light. Nothing moves. Everything dims round the edges. Quietens.
‘Kat? . . . Kat, are you there? . . . Say something, for God’s sake.’
I jump when the car horns blare. The lights have turned green.
‘Kat?’
A car swerves out from behind. Overtakes. The driver shouts at me. I know he is shouting because of his face. The colour of it. The wild gesture of his hand. The shape of his mouth.
I sit there.
‘Kat? Are you there?’
I put on my hazard lights. The line of cars behind overtake, one by one.
‘For God’s sake, Kat, bloody say something.’ My father’s whisper is like a shout. It would be a shout except someone is there. He can’t shout in front of visitors. Nice people don’t shout in front of visitors.
The lights change from green to amber. Now they’re red again.
‘Dad?’
‘Look, Kat, I know this is a shock.’
The pedestrian lights are green now. A woman crosses the road, wheeling a pram. The hood is up. You can’t see the baby.
He says, ‘Are you in the car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. That’s good. You can drive. You can drive over to the house.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean
, why? Because they’re here. They’re in the house. You need to come over.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Kat?’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can. Of course you can.’
The lights turn green again. The horns blare and the cars overtake.
I don’t look at them as they pass by so I can’t be sure about their hands. Gesturing. That’s what I’d do.
The hazard lights blink.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
‘Kat?’
The hands gripping the wheel don’t feel like my hands. I can’t feel them. I can’t feel anything.
‘Listen to me, love. That young girl has come all the way from Brighton to meet you. You have to come.’
‘I can’t. I just can’t. I’m sorry. I have to go.’
‘Kat, please, don’t hang up.’
I hang up.
The lights turn red.
Faith’s birth grandfather’s house is legend. I don’t know if it has ten bedrooms because I haven’t counted all of them but I bet it does. I reckon Faith’s granny and granddad are bookworms because there’re bookshelves in every room I’ve been in so far, which is four. Some of the books are really old and look like they might fall apart if you touch them. If Mam were here, she’d say, ‘Don’t even think about it, Milo.’ It’s too cold to go into the back garden, which is a pity because there are two orchards out there. Ed says his dad grows tomatoes and apples and pears in one of them but the other one has nothing but orchids. He says his mam loves orchids but they’re really hard to grow and sometimes they die. But the tomatoes are dead easy. Ed says some of them grow as big as baseballs. I’ve never played baseball. He says his dad makes tomato juice because Kat loves Bloody Marys. Whatever they are.
There’s a room called a den and that’s where me and Ed are. We’re playing Mario Kart. He’s got a Wii. I tell him I’m saving up for a PlayStation 3. Ed lets me be Mario. He says he doesn’t mind being Luigi. He’s winning but it’s only because he practises every single day. He said so.
Lifesaving for Beginners Page 23