He hadn't spoken for some time then, suddenly, he said: "Yes, it's curious, isn't it . . ."
Billy, his son, didn't know what his father was talking about but thought it best to respond cautiously, and so, gave a mild grunt.
"It's got nothing to do with closing your eyes," his father continued. "Nothing to do with the blackness of sleep."
Billy felt he would now have to commit himself beyond a grunt. "I suppose not," he said.
"I seem to be going further each night."
Billy decided that he would have to address the matter directly. "Further?" he said. "How do you mean, further?"
"Further," came the reply, "into wherever the hell it is I go."
"When you're asleep?" Billy ventured.
"When I'm asleep," his father confirmed.
But the mysteries of sleep did not fully account for the old man's unease. Billy hadn't heard his father talk like this before. He could see he was upset. His coming back to visit had upset him. Not in a bad way. It was the unfamiliarity of it, perhaps.
He was also upset by burglaries. There had been three houses in the street burgled in a fortnight. He was shocked that no one in any of the three houses had spoken to him about it. No one had warned him. He had learnt about the raids in the local shop.
"This city is going to the dogs, son," he said coming away from the window. "They'd have the eyes out of your head if they thought they could get them."
He had been saying that sort of thing all his life and now, in his old age, they seemed to be borne out by hard experience.
"In these houses," he said, "they come in through the roof. The roof is the most vulnerable." He looked up at the ceiling. They were sitting in the kitchen which had been reduced to part public house, part bicycle repair shop. Billy's gaze moved from the jumble to the ceiling.
"I'm sure it's worse in London," Billy's father said presently.
"Worse, Da," Billy confirmed.
"Are you all right? I mean are you fixed up?"
"I am," Billy told him. "I'm over the difficult part. We've got a nice place at last."
"And where's that?"
"Battersea."
"Battersea . . ." He repeated the name as if he was making a picture of the place. He had never been in London.
There was a long pause. They drank their tea.
"Yes," the old man said eventually, "that sounds like a nice place you have all right . . ."
"It is. You'd like it."
"Well, as long as you're happy in it."
"We like it . . . we don't have to stay there permanently, of course . . ." "No . . . of course."
Another long pause. More tea.
"You'll be over to see us, won't you?" Billy asked.
"Me . . . go over?" There was surprise in his father's voice. "There's room. We'd love to have you."
He again looked to the ceiling. "Maybe . . . maybe . . ." He seemed to withdraw into some deep hole from the bottom of which the ceiling was for the first time in sharp focus. "Not so much as a word from next door . . ." he murmured, "not a bloody word out of any of them."
Billy found himself gazing at the ceiling once again.
"What exactly are you doing over there?" his father said, suddenly breaking from his trance.
"Well, I'm only getting on my feet now - but I'm all right. We have enough to keep us while I look for an opening."
"The girl is keeping you?"
"No-no. She's in the art college and has a part-time job selling clothes. I work for a market research company . . . on the phone, like."
His father looked at him quizzically. "On the phone . . . ?"
"I do survey work," Billy explained. "We're not selling anything."
"You answer the telephone?"
"No-no. It's research for big clients."
"You take messages? You're a messenger boy?"
"You're not listening. I do market research on the telephone."
"And you couldn't find time to ring your old man to see if he was alive or dead . . . ?"
"I'm here, amn't I? Didn't I just invite you to come over and stay? You're just not listening."
"What's the young one's name?"
"You know her name, Da. Claire."
"Claire's got a lot on her plate with you and the clothes and the art college. What have you done to your hair?"
"What do you mean? It's short."
"Aye, well, it's trained. It's better than it was."
"I can't stay long."
"Aye, well, at least you're here . . ."
Billy stood in the hallway eating breakfast cereal from a bowl which he held just under his chin. He had watched his father eat a boiled egg mashed in a cup with bread crumbs, pepper and butter in the kitchen. Now, he was standing by himself. Light from the fan window above the door burned his eyes but he stood there devouring the contents of the bowl, squinting eyes fixed on the back of the hall door. The wind whistled through the letterbox. He drained the bowl with a slurp, then returned to the kitchen.
"Aunt Maisie . . . have you heard from her lately?" he asked. "Is she still on at you to sell up and go and live with her up there?"
"She's never done complaining, no matter where she is," his father declared. "She's always on her high horse. I have to play a sharp game. I've invited her to come and live with me down here. That stopped her pestering me - for a time, at any rate."
"What about selling this place and moving into a flat? You don't need all this room, Da. This house needs a lot done to it."
"I've been threatening to go up and visit her. I expect I will." Billy's father again looked at the ceiling. "As for this place, if I can keep the burglars out I'm happy enough. Next time you're back you can help me give it a lick of paint."
"I could do some painting now."
"Next time."
"Right . . . next time . . . "
"Have you a garden at least, over there?"
"No, but we're near the park. You'd like the park."
There was a pause while the Billy washed the dishes and cutlery.
"Yes . . . that sounds like a nice place you have, all right . . . " his father said vaguely as he looked over his son's shoulder at his shambles of a garden. "It's going to rain. Have you had enough to eat?"
They were having a smoke.
"What does she look like," his father asked. "Tell me something about her."
Billy thought for a moment. "She's got these teeth, right . . . one of them is a baby tooth. A little sharp one. It was never replaced. It gives her a lopsided smile. You'll like her . . . "
"What sort of description it that? Are you trying to get a rise out of me?"
"You'll like her, Da. I swear. She's from Belfast."
His beloved Belfast, city of his youth. The old man perked up when he heard that. Billy had been saving this scrap of information, but he had used this solitary ace earlier than he had anticipated.
"Whereabouts in Belfast?"
Billy didn't know, nor did he care. He had met Claire in London. That was enough. Had it mattered to her which part of Belfast she had come from she would have told him.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" his father asked. "You mean you didn't ask the girl?" He wasn't trying to determine her religion, though naturally, he was curious. It was a street or district he wanted. In this city Belfast was referred to but not talked about. He wanted some account of the place.
"She'll tell you herself," Billy said, suddenly feeling foolish. "I met her in London, didn't I?"
"You're full of information, you are. And you're telling me you do research."
"She's Catholic."
"I didn't ask."
"Are you disappointed?"
"Look at me, for Gawd sake" - suddenly, the Belfast accent was evident - "down here more than forty years. It's your mother who would have kicked up and she was half taig."
Billy's father pulled on his cigarette and gave a devilish little grin. "Does she have you running to Mass?"
Billy discharged smoke with a whistling laugh. He stubbed out his cigarette butt. "She's Catholic, and she hates me smoking."
The father exhaled in turn. "She sounds like a lovely girl," he said appreciatively. They were on the high ground together now and that was a relief.
"Here, what do you mean, she'll tell me herself? Is she coming here?" "She's in Belfast visiting her family. She'll be down on Saturday."
"What, this Saturday?"
"Well I won't be here next Saturday, will I? You might have told me."
"I'm telling you now. She won't be here 'til Saturday."
"You might have told me before now - when you rang, for instance."
"I didn't know she'd be going to Belfast when I rang. I didn't know until the day before yesterday. She only decided to come over at the last minute."
"To Belfast?"
"And here. What's the matter? She's only staying the two nights, then we're going back."
"And where will you sleep?"
"In my room."
"Gawd above, the pair of you can't sleep there."
"Of course we can. Where do you want us to sleep?"
His father was embarrassed and began to fret. "Well . . . you can't sleep in your room . . .or the other one for that matter. She'll . . . the pair of you have to have . . . you'll want the big bed."
"What, your room?"
"It's not . . . in a fit state."
"Da, she's not going to give a shag what the room is like, if that's what's worrying you."
"It's just that it needs doing up."
"I said I'd do a bit of painting."
"Not now."
"Don't worry. We'll just change the sheets and that."
"There's plenty of sheets. I've a hot press full of sheets. There's any amount of sheets and blankets."
"We'll be fine."
"Aye, I suppose you will."
"Don't worry."
"I'll clear the room out."
"Leave it as it is. It's not Maisie that's coming."
"Maisie? Could you see her and the swank coming down to Dublin for a weekend looking for my bed? You don't know your Aunt Maisie, son."
"Who's this swank?"
"She's taken up with this bachelor swank from Helen's Bay - didn't I tell you that? The pair of them run off down to Bangor every other weekend, to some fancy hotel there. Can't you see them - arm in arm on the sea front on a Saturday night, her dolled up in her finery, him with his cravat and his white hair oiled and the hotel keys jangling in his pocket . . ."
Right enough, the picture was very unattractive to Billy.
". . . the pair of them scoffing at the young couples in the chip shops and in the amusement arcades . . ."
Even allowing for his father's hopelessly old-fashioned notion of courting couples generally, the picture was still vaguely disgusting.
"...and don't you go thinking I'm jealous of a bit of company," his father added. "They're the jealous ones, son. Jealousy of the young is a terrible thing."
"Whatever you say, Da."
"Of course, she doesn't want me up there at all. Not with yer man on the scene."
"Ah now Da, I'm sure she'd love to see you."
"She thinks I'm loaded. Did you know that?" The old man was enjoying his son's company. He stood up and that made him feel even better.
"You'll like Claire, Da," Billy assured him.
"Of course I will," his father replied. He looked out the window again. "It's definitely going to rain," he said.
Father and son humped on their coats, shuffling and rotating in the hall. The old man checked that he had his house keys, then pulled the door behind them. He paused at the gate and gazed back at his house curiously. Was he looking to see if the burglars had displaced any roof slates?
"You probably wouldn't be let sleep in the same room if you went to visit Claire," he observed dryly.
That earned a hearty grunt.
Together, they set off at a keen pace. They approached the bridge at Portobello where the battery factory backed onto the canal.
"It used to be you wouldn't pass here without seeing a dead dog floating in the water," the old man said. "It would be on its back and its belly would be bloated. It was a lucky kid that had a stick to push it about."
"The good old days, what?" said Billy.
"If you had a stick."
Billy's father had shared digs in this area when he came down from Belfast in 1945, having secured a good job in the city engineer's office in the fledgling Free State. Someone had thought him sufficiently talented to waive the rule requiring state employees to have passed an Irish language exam. He had served his apprenticeship in McLaughlin & Harvey, a Belfast firm of contractors. Much of the work there had been War work. He had survived the Nazi bombings and had come south to Dublin, a city that had kept its lights burning while the Luftwaffe passed on its way to Belfast and Liverpool. Dublin was to be his first major step in his career. From there he would go to Canada or America. While still in digs he met a red-haired woman with a powdered face and white ankles. She was from Donegal. They fell in love perhaps. He had a good job, so they married. She was willing to go abroad, but he never made the decision, one way or the other, and so, they stayed in Dublin.
"I thought we'd walk a bit," he said. It was a familiar phrase to Billy. In the past it had meant his father wanted to talk, mostly about Billy's future. The need to make decisions and to carry them through. And so, they walked. It seemed to Billy they tramped the length and breath of the city. It was a tour of sorts. It was as if they had Claire with them and his father was showing her how the city's guts were slung - underneath us a crumbling brick tunnel runs to the river; that building there: sheepskins were used to stabilise the sodden foundations; they used store whiskey in these caverns; this nearly fell down; that never got built - Billy had never been given this tour before. He didn't much care for it, but was intrigued by his father giving it.
"I'm telling you this because you should know your own city," his father insisted. "You said Claire hasn't been to Dublin, You'll want to bring her around. You'll want to entertain her."
"I'll take her out for a Chinese, Da."
Billy's father was embarrassed. "Don't mock," he said. His mind seemed to wander, then, he fixed on something. "Will you come to the dogs tonight?" he asked.
"What? Greyhounds?"
"Aye. Shelbourne Road."
"Since when did you bet on dogs?" Billy wanted to know.
"I go with a friend. Paddy. Paddy Flynn. Will you come?" His father's discomfort had increased. Billy wanted to put him at ease.
"Of course I'll come. Do you win anything?"
"Not at all. Paddy's the man for the dogs."
"Greyhounds . . ." Billy gave a big, quizzical smile.
"I've known Paddy since I was in digs." The old man felt the need to explain. "We shared digs together for a time. He disappeared a long time ago, then he reappeared recently. He was in Canada."
"Do you know anything about dogs?" Billy asked, his smile changing to a cheeky grin, "apart from the ones floating in the canal?"
"Not at all," his father replied. "Paddy's the man."
"What else do you do?"
"I suit myself, son."
Billy liked this answer, but it did not satisfy his curiosity. "Do you want a drink?"
"Yes," his father replied, and pointing to a public house added, "but not in there."
"I need a drink, Da," said Billy. "I need to sit down. I'm whacked."
"Too many cigarettes."
The father gave in easily. They entered the pub. Drinking in a public house with his father on a weekday afternoon was a novelty. Billy watched the old man swallow his pint and wondered who was this Paddy Flynn fellow.
"So, walking the streets is what you call suiting yourself?" he asked, the grin still in evidence.
"Don't be cheeky."
"No, swear to God, I'm curious."
"You were always a cheeky pup, but never mind. Now you're laughing. Now you have a job and you have a wee girl."
Billy wanted to thank his father for assistance for which he couldn't find the words. "Yeah. I do, don't I. Thanks."
"We'd better eat," his father said. "Do you think we'd get a sandwich in this kip?"
"I'd say we would," replied Billy. "Will we risk it?"
"What the hell," said the old man. "And by the way, thanks for the book. I'll enjoy that."
It was the first time Billy had bought a book for his father. He had gone into Foyles in Charing Cross Road and picked out a hardback thriller.
"I thought you'd read something like that," he said awkwardly.
"Aye. I'll read it, for sure."
It was already time to meet Paddy Flynn in another pub, nearer to the dog track. They decided not to eat sandwiches after all. They just had one quick drink. Much of the journey to the second pub was spent in silent anticipation.
Paddy Flynn was waiting at the bar.
"Ah, The Duke," he said, greeting Billy's father.
A well-heeled sort he seemed to Billy. It had never occurred to Billy that his father had a nickname. The Duke - how had that come about? Wasn't this rich?
Billy was proudly introduced. Flynn was happiest talking. He flattered his old friend and bought drinks. Billy tried hard to imagine the two as young men sharing digs. It seemed as unlikely as their laying bets and cheering on dogs. His concentration was broken, however, when he heard his own name being called after several rounds of drinks. The bar was small and crowded with punters. At first he could not locate the source of the cry. Then, a hand was put on his shoulder. A little sickness came over him when his name was repeated at close quarters and he recognised the voice and was forced to turn about.
"So," said the voice with hand attached, "you're back." Given the tone there could be no satisfactory answer to this.
"Francie," Billy said as brightly as he could manage. "Back for a while, are you?"
"No. Just the few days."
"Oh, very good." "This is my Da."
"Hello, Mr Hughes."
"Da. This is Francie."
"Hello, Francie."
"We'll have to celebrate," Francie said with a sneer.
"We're grand, thanks, Francie," said Billy, attempting to manoeuvre himself and his father into a less intimate configuration with the Francie fellow.
"I bet you are," said Francie. "And tell me, are you still riding the youngones?"
"Are you still with Mary?"
"No. I'm not still with Mary."
"Very sorry to hear that."
"No you're not."
Billy's father knew who Mary was. She had had supper at his kitchen table. He was alert to the antagonism from the moment Francie had opened his mouth and had decided it would be best to show no interest.
"Actually," said Billy, "you're right. I'm not. I don't give a damn."
"Are you looking for trouble, are you?" said Francie, lowering his voice and spilling some of his drink.
"Are you blaming me for you and Mary splitting up?"
"I am, actually. Mary thinks you're something special."
Billy's father saw that there was more manoeuvring now and that it wasn't good. He had heard the spurious righteousness in his son's voice and he had seen the Francie fellow's chin thrust forwards. "Mary," he blurted out. "Do I know this Mary?"
Billy glared at Francie over the rim of his tilted glass. Strangely, he couldn't summon a clear portrait of Mary, though he had known her intimately. All that came to mind was that he had been on Jimmy Saville charity walks with this bastard when they were teenagers. Billy knew what he was about to say was provocative, but he could not restrain himself. He saw the opening and could not resist. "She might be right," he said.
Billy realised he was drunk only when he felt the blow land because he was foolish enough to think it would have no effect.
"That's the first time I've been slung out of a public house," his father said. "Keep your head back, for Gawd sake."
"I am. I'm keeping it back, what does it look like I'm doing?" He had his head tilted back and was pinching the bridge of his damaged nose to stem the flow of blood.
"Cheeky young pup, you. I'm ashamed of you."
"No you're not. And we weren't slung out. We left."
"We're not going to the races. Not now. The fun's gone out of this night, I can tell you . . ."
"Well I'm sorry," Billy replied indignantly. "I really don't give a damn about dogs."
"Made a show of me, you did . . ."
"I said I was sorry."
"Is it broken? Let me look."
Billy pulled away. "No. It's not broken. It just hurts."
"Here's a hanky."
"I don't want your filthy hanky."
The crumpled square of linen swam in and out of focus before Billy's eyes. He realised his father was as drunk as he.
"We . . . we, eh . . . should go home," Billy suggested without enthusiasm. Suddenly. he wanted to laugh but found he couldn't. Somewhere nearby, at an upstairs window, a man was singing. The voice seemed to carry like a Muslim prayer across the city. To Billy's ears it was some kind of unintelligible lament for anybody with a bloody nose.
"Eh, this way," his father said, taking him by the arm. With his heavy tread the old man led the way through dark streets. At a busy lighted corner he halted and, with great care, went through the road-crossing drill.
In spite of his alcoholic haze, Billy wondered about his father's guided tour through streets that were not as he described.
"Apparently, she isn't well," his father said, steadying himself on the curb.
"Who isn't well?" Billy asked.
"Maisie."
"What's wrong with her?"
"Gawd knows. She'll tell you something different every day."
As a unit of measure a day had ceased to be of importance to Billy's father. If Maisie died with her would go the old man's last tie to the North. This was a measure that mattered greatly.
"I might go up next weekend," he said.
They stepped off the curb together, Billy probing the swelling about his nose with a finger. The bleeding had stopped. At the canal bridge the old man halted and peered into the deep black box of water that was the lock. "It's dangerous, all the same," he said. "And look at that," he said pointing at the rubbish that had accumulated on the shoulders of the sluice gates. He wanted to scoop it out. "If I had a stick . . ."
"Yeah, Da, I know . . ." said Billy rummaging in his pockets for his cigarette packet.
"You know nothing," replied his father presently.
"I just want to get home," said Billy. He couldn't leave his nose alone. He kept poking it, even while he searched for his cigarettes.
"Leave it alone," his father instructed.
Billy found the packet he was looking for and extracted a cigarette. His father chose that moment to lead on, but in turning he missed his footing and fell into the water. Billy dived in after him with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. They were both sucked under, but surfaced a moment later close to the upper gate. The lock had been flooded. Had the water level been low there would have been little or no chance of climbing out unaided. It was late. There were very few about on foot.
The strongest currents ran deep in the trench. Neither man panicked, but Billy's father, completely disorientated, was in danger of going under again. If he was drawn into the deep currents he would surface like one of his dead dogs. Billy rose high in the water as he repeatedly lunged at the gate. The flow was against him and the cold water was numbing his limbs. He shouted, but he was not in control of his breathing. His hands finally locked on the gate. His father seized his outstretched legs. He then clawed his way up his son's body until he, too, had a grip on the wooden upright. Billy worked his way into the corner between keystone and gate and dragged himself out. He coaxed his father to the same spot and, with great difficulty, pulled him to safety.
His father rolled over on the dirt. Billy collapsed on top of him. From the bridge they might have looked like a courting couple. It was some time before Billy could relax his grip and roll off his father.
"You should give up the smokes, son," the old man gasped. "We nearly drowned."
The rain the old man had predicted had never come, but they were wet and cold. Their clothes were stuck to them. They lay on their backs panting. The submersion had sobered them somewhat. The brush with death had put the previous big event of the evening in perspective, even if Billy's nose was bleeding again.
"Are you going to marry this Mary?"
"Claire. Her name is Claire, Da."
"Claire. That's a nice name . . ."
"Here, you never told me you were called The Duke."
"That was a long time ago."
"By the way, don't mention the burglaries to Mary . . ."
"Claire."
"To Claire. It would only upset her."
"I won't mention the burglaries."
They were beginning to breathe more evenly now but were still stuck to the ground, their arms and their legs splayed.
"From Belfast, you say . . .?"
"Claire. From Belfast. You haven't told me why you were called The Duke . . ."
"We were sharing digs, Flynn and me. He used to borrow clothes from me. He said I was always dressed like a duke. He hadn't sixpence to his name then. He was seeing this youngone in Leeson Street. He'd get dressed up in my suit to go to see her. Ham and Eggs Row they used to call Leeson Street. It was nearly all digs. You could smell the breakfast fries coming up from the basements. They're all night clubs now, those basements." The old man was feeling the cold. He was shivering, but as yet made no attempt to get to his feet. "Anyway," he said, "she must have fallen in love with the suit because she married me."
Billy could only smile at this little revelation. How precious it was, How little he knew of his parents' lives. One way or another, he and the old man were on the high ground again.
"I wonder did Paddy go to the dogs by himself?" Billy's father said. "I'll ring him tomorrow."
They were both shivering now. Billy swore he could still hear the singing from the window. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gazed up into the night sky. He tried to see into wherever the hell it was his father disappeared to each night when he went to sleep.
"You know you were talking about going somewhere in your sleep," he said to his father, "when you look up there into the universe, is it anything like that?"
"No," the old man replied. "Nothing remotely like it."
"Very curious," said Billy.
Neither felt ready yet to attempt rising to his feet.
(c) Philip Davison 2001
Philip Davison was born in Dublin, where he now lives. He has published five novels: The Book-Thief's Heartbeat (Co-Op); Twist and Shout (Brandon), The Illustrator (Wolfhound), The Crooked Man (Cape), and McKenzie's Friend (Cape). A third novel featuring the Harry Fielding character will be published by Jonathan Cape next year. These three novels will be published in the United States by Viking Penguin. His short stories have appeared in various anthologies and journals. He has co-written two television dramas: Exposure and Criminal Conversation. His play, The Invisible Mending Company, was performed on the Abbey Theatre's Peacock stage.