So what would have happened if it wasnay a cheese salad, would ye have sent it back to the chef?
Murdo smiled, but Dad lowered the book. Seriously? he said. I know it’s just a habit.
Well that’s all it is.
Some habits are good son but some arent. The bad ones are there to be broken. Somebody gives ye a sandwich ye dont open it up to see what’s inside. Know what I mean? It’s actually bad manners. Think about it.
Murdo sniffed. Dad resumed reading. Murdo lifted the sandwich and the coffee, about to return to his spot in the garden. He hesitated then sat down at the patio table. He didnt want Dad thinking he was huffy. He bit into the bread. He wasnt even hungry but Aunt Maureen made the sandwiches especially. He had to eat one. Anyway, better for cleanliness to eat at the table. That would be Dad. If ye dropped crumbs at a table ye could wipe them up whereas in the garden, if ye dropped them on the grass ye didnt see them again.
Although birds came to peck. That was good if ye fed the birds. But what about the crumbs that landed on the earth? causing wee tremors. Insects would feel it. As soon as the food landed that would be them. The earth tremors would tell them. Hundreds of insects arriving from miles around; there they were, heads poking out the soil: snap snap snap. If they missed the grub they ate one another. Insects didnt worry. Did they even know who was who? That’s my granny I better not eat her. Or if it was a lower species of insect, they would eat them. Insects fed off one another.
Dad had finished his sandwich and lowered his book onto the table. He lifted the coffee. I take it ye’re not missing school!
Ha ha.
Dad was smiling.
I never want to go back. I dont Dad. I really dont.
Aye well there’s things we have to do in life Murdo, we dont always want to do them.
Not school though.
School. Work. You go to school I go to work.
I want to go to work.
Dad sighed.
I do. I want to go.
Ye will soon enough.
Aye but Dad I really want to, really. I do.
So ye keep telling me.
Because it’s true.
Dad shifted on his chair, raised the book and gazed at it for several seconds, then lowered it. Where’s all this come from? he said. Ye’ve only got a few months to go and that’s you.
Dad
Less than a year.
Murdo groaned.
One year.
Dad it’ll no work like I mean it wont.
What ye talking about?
Me at school Dad it’s not working, it’s hopeless.
Oh God.
It’s me. I’m just like—I’m hopeless.
Of course ye’re not hopeless. Ye’re not hopeless at all.
I am.
Ye’re not. What ye talking about?
Well what I mean I’m not able to do it. I hate it. I really hate it and I just—I cant do it. I wish I could but I cant.
Ye’re bright enough.
Dad
Ye’re only repeating this year because how things have been at home. It’s nothing to do with being stupid or hopeless or some such nonsense, it’s because of what’s happened, it’s because of like just . . . the past year and Mum being ill Murdo. Just stick in. Stick in. Ye’ll catch up.
I wont Dad.
Ye will. Then next year it’s college.
Aw Dad.
Ye’re only repeating this one year. That’s all.
Dad
Naw. No more.
Dad I’m only saying
Dad groaned. He looked at Murdo. Murdo shrugged. He lifted the remains of the sandwich and stood, shifting back the chair. He didnt feel like the coffee but took it anyway.
Dad said, Watch ye dont burn. It’s into the mid eighties.
Murdo nodded, returned to his spot on the grass. Dad glanced across but Murdo pretended not to notice, lifted the cowboy book and lay down on the towel. He stretched out on his front, the sun on his back.
He turned to his page in the book. It was good having an actual ordinary book and ye just marked a page and whatever. Quite an interesting story too. But he wanted back down the basement. Except if he went it was being huffy. It wouldnt occur to Dad there was a reason, like music, thinking about music. Okay if he had a headset or something but when ye had nothing, jeesoh. Really it was playing, he needed to play. He really did and he couldnt. He wanted to and he couldnt.
That was Dad: Ye cannay bring the accordeon.
How come! How come he couldnt? How come Dad didnt let him? What was the big problem? It was just stupid. It wasnt like Dad had to carry it. God, just bloody hopeless. He got up from the grass and left the book on the towel, strolled past the patio and through into the dining area; whatever Dad would think, who cares, he would think something.
***
Uncle John returned from work near 6:30 p.m. Dad had gone to his room a while ago. Murdo was helping Aunt Maureen lay the dining table. Back home he cooked most of the weekday meals. Sausages a lot of the time or beef mince; potatoes and peas, beans. Dad did it Friday nights and the weekends. Friday night was fish and chips Dad bought out the chip shop. Most meals they ate on their laps watching television. Here Aunt Maureen laid out the dining table. Different food in bowls so ye could help yerself; meat and vegetables, piles of potatoes. If ye wanted more ye could get it and it wasnt a fuss. If ye wanted bread ye could take that too. Different from the bread back home but better-tasting than the stuff from Sarah’s shop.
During the meal Aunt Maureen flitted between the dining table and kitchen but took part in the conversation. She was a brilliant cook. She acted like she wasnt but she was. She called it home cooking but what else would it be? Ye lived in a home and ye had the cooking so it was home cooking; food ye could eat and just relax.
Dad and Uncle John were drinking wine; Aunt Maureen and Murdo had orange juice and water. Dad wouldnt have minded if he had asked for a glass. A wee one would have been fine but just now he was more thirsty than anything. Uncle John was talking about the early days and how life was okay around here even when things werent so elsewhere. Work hard live good. It’s how it’s been since I got here all them years ago. How long Mother?
Thirty-eight years, replied Aunt Maureen. I met you thirty-seven;
