Free A Lie About My Father by John Burnside Page B

stood in the hallway, on her way to bed, and I knew what would happen next.
    One night my father came home about nine thirty and discovered that my mother had already turned in. All her life, she suffered from anaemia; she would get headaches and mysterious dizzy spells; if she sat down for any length of time, just knitting, or listening to the wireless, she would suddenly fall asleep and sit, head slumped forward on to her chest, lost to us. Sometimes, when my father was out, she would send us to bed at the usual time, then she would go through to the living room, turn the lights off, stoke up the fire, and go to bed, presumably because she thought my father would be out for hours, and she could get some proper rest. I think that was when she was most content, alone in bed, drifting away, letting her worries slide. That night, she’d had a headache, though, and she looked pale and thin-mouthed, with dark blue circles around the eyes. When my father got in, I was pretty sure she was asleep, but I knew he wouldn’t disturb her anyway.
    Half an hour passed, before he slipped into my room. ‘Hey, son,’ he said, peering down at me. ‘You’re no asleep already, are you?’ He could see I wasn’t. ‘Come on, put your jumper and your trousers on. There’s somebody here to see you.’
    I got up and slipped my clothes on over my pyjamas. I didn’t really want to see Paddy – oddly enough, I felt more uncomfortable with him than with my father’s other, less gentlemanly friends. With them, it was just a matter of doing what needed to be done, but Paddy embarrassed me. I think he embarrassed himself, when he’d had too much to drink. He at least knew he could do better.
    Paddy was sitting in the living room, by the fire. There was always a fire in the grate, except in high summer: the prefabs had no other heating, and where we were, by the woods, it was damp. Damp was much worse than cold, everybody said so. You could walk miles in a freezing gale, as long as you stayed dry, but everybody knew stories about the wifie who’d just washed her hair, then popped out for some coal and died two days later, in a high fever. So the fire was there to keep out the damp, and it was a godsend to Paddy, who always looked a little damp himself, a man in a worn suit that looked like it had just come off a rail in a second-hand shop, and still needed a bit of an iron.
    ‘You no sleeping yet, son?’ was his greeting. As always, he looked embarrassed.
    I shook my head.
    ‘Paddy’s not had his tea,’ my father said. ‘I bet you’d like some chips. Would you like some chips?’ I didn’t know who he was talking to, me or Paddy. He took a banknote from his pocket and held it out to me. ‘Run down to the shop and get us a couple of fish suppers,’ he said. ‘And some chips for yourself.’
    ‘Aw, come on, Tommy,’ Paddy protested. He looked more embarrassed than ever. ‘You’re not sending him out like that, are ye?’
    My father kept his eyes on me. ‘He’s all right,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you, son?’
    I nodded.
    ‘Well, he’ll need a coat on,’ Paddy said.
    My father gave a snort. ‘He’ll not need a coat,’ he said. ‘Will you?’
    I shook my head. I didn’t really have a coat. ‘I’m fine,’ I said.
    My father nodded his approval. ‘He never feels the cold,’ he said. ‘Do you, son? Takes after his Dad.’ He looked at my feet. ‘You better put your shoes on, though,’ he said. ‘We don’t want your feet getting cold.’ He turned away, heading off towards the kitchen.
    Paddy sat staring at me dolefully. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘You have to keep your feet warm.’ he said. He looked wretched and it suddenly occurred to me that he was going to die, not some day, but soon. He looked like he knew it, too. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
    For the week or so after one of these parties, we ate soup and scraps. My mother would go traipsing around the high street, come Monday morning, asking the butcher