Part 13 (1/2)

'Drowned. London. Some fella punched him, he was worse for wear, fell into a river.'

I gasp. 'That's awful.' I'd known he'd died, but never knew the details. Never asked for them. Why hadn't I?

He looks at me, surprised that someone would think it so tragic after all these years, as though Hamish wasn't a real person. And now I can see he's wondering what my visit is about.

'Was my dad very upset when Hamish died?'

He thinks about it, shrugs a little. 'He had to view the body. Flew over on his own. Angus wanted to go, but sure I couldn't be sending all my staff away to London,' he raises his voice defensively, still fighting a forty-year-old argument over sending Dad over on his own. 'Ara' it was probably tough for him on his own over there. His ma was worried. First time away and all that, seeing his brother dead, but he had to go the authorities thought it was him that was dead.'

'They thought my dad was dead?' I'm not sure I've heard correctly.

'Seems good ol' Hamish had been using Fergus's name in London. G.o.d knows why, but if you p.i.s.s off enough people like that boy did you'd have to change your name ten times over. He'd probably have worked his way through the entire family if he hadn't died.'

My heart pounds at that discovery, a clear link to Dad's alternate name.

'Come to think of it I remember hearing about a Hamish O'Neill,' he says suddenly. 'Funny, you've reminded me now. Knew it was familiar when you said it. Here's a funny story ...' He s.h.i.+fts in his chair, livens up. 'I'd been hearing things about a lad, Hamish O'Neill, playing marbles locally. Didn't mean anything, but Hamish wasn't a common name around and when you'd hear it, a fella would listen out, and O'Neill, well, that was Molly's maiden name, before she became Boggs, and then Doyle. It didn't mean anything, but I told Molly. I was drunk, shouldn't have said it maybe, we were at the wedding Fergus's wedding and, no offence to your ma, but it was so hoity-toity the f.u.c.kin' thing drove me to the drink and gave me a loose tongue. So after I tell her, she chats to your da, him in his fancy blue suit and frilly s.h.i.+rt and looking like a poofter, and I see her slap him across the face. ”You're not him,” she says.'

He's laughing at this, laughing so hard, at the image of my dad being slapped by his mother on his wedding day. My eyes fill with tears and I try to blink them away.

'That put him in his place,' he says, wiping his eyes. 'Now I never knew if it was your da playing or if it was another fella, a coincidence as they say, but there weren't many who played marbles at that age, not around where we lived anyway. Ever since he was a mucker he'd be out on the road all day, playing, you'd have to bate him to get in for dinner. Every birthday and Christmas present, all he wanted for was f.e.c.kin' marbles. All the lads were the same, but your da was the worst because he was the best. He even hung out in some dodgy places with Hamish, Hamish taking him under his wing thinking he's some bigshot agent making a few quid from his baby brother. I told your da when he was a teenager: ”You'll never meet a wife if ye keeps playing those f.e.c.kin' things.” He gave up when Hamish died. At least it did him good that way.'

I came here looking for answers, for insight into Dad's life, though I wasn't sure if I'd get them. But if Hamish used Dad's name in London, it explains why Dad used Hamish's name for marble playing. As a sign of respect? Remembrance? To honour him? To bring him back to life? And no wonder Dad played marbles in secret, when everyone around him was telling him to stop. But why continue this into his adult life?

'How did Dad feel about Hamish having used his name?'

'Couldn't understand it myself, but your da took it as a compliment. Proud as punch that Hamish had stolen his name. Like he was something special. Puffed-out chest and all at the funeral. Silly boy didn't realise that Hamish was getting him in a world of trouble using his name. If Fergus had set foot in the wrong place at the wrong time, Hamish could have got his brother killed. But Hamish was like that, I told you: a leech. Sucking up everything in a person and moving on.'

There's a long silence.

'How did you and Grandma meet?' I ask suddenly, wondering what possessed her to marry this man after the death of her husband.

'Met her in the butcher's shop. She bought her meat from me.'

That was it.

'Must have been true love to marry a woman with four children,' I say, trying to bring positivity to it.

'Those four runts?' he asks. 'She's b.l.o.o.d.y lucky I married her at all.'

I take in the surroundings. It's simple and clean, he is keeping it well.

'Laura will be here soon,' he says, following my gaze. 'Tommy's daughter.'

'Oh, right. Of course.' I try to think of the last time I met my cousin.

'She comes on Fridays, Christina on Mondays, the lads every day in between, checking up on me to make sure I haven't keeled over and have maggots coming out of my eyes. That's why they moved me over here: Laura lives across the way, they can keep a better eye on me that way, stop me getting up to mischief,' he chuckles. '”Are ye all right, Grandda? Are ye still alive, Grandda?” Ah, they're a good lot, the Doyles. Tommy and Bobby's kids. Bobby's not with the ma any more, you hear that?'

I shake my head.

'Sad to hear that, I liked her. But Bobby can't get enough of the women, never could, and Joe can't stand them. He's a queer, you know that?'

'He's gay, yes, I know.'

'I blame his ma for that, always suffocating him don't go here, don't go there while the rest of them went out and about and raised themselves.'

'I'd say he was gay no matter how she was with him,' I say, having had enough of him now.

He laughs, 'That's what he says, but what do I know?'

Silence then. Uncomfortable. We've both reached the end of our chat.

'How's your da?'

'He's okay.'

'Still doesn't remember much?'

'Not everything.'

'No harm,' he says, almost sadly to himself. 'They wish he'd remember them though. Talk about it all the time.'

'Who?'

'The Boggs boys. The Doyle boys.'

'Of course Dad remembers them.'

'Not the recent years.'

'Well I suppose they weren't close in recent years,' I say.

'But they were,' he says, riled up like I've accused him of lying. 'These past few years they'd started meeting up again. They played marbles, would you believe. Them and his new woman. They all liked her. No offence to your ma, but they said this one was good for him. Kept them all together. He doesn't remember any of that?' He looks at me like he doesn't believe my dad's memory loss.

I shake my head, completely taken aback.

'Do you know her name?'

'Whose?'

'His ... girlfriend. This woman.'

'Ah now,' he waves his hand dismissively. 'Never met her. But the boys know. They can tell you.'

With a weak, 'Tell your ma I was asking for her,' he closes the door and I just manage to avoid my cousin Laura, who's carrying a vacuum cleaner and a bucket and mop across from an opposite flat on the other side of the courtyard. I sit into my car feeling stunned by what I've learned.

I search through my phone for my Uncle Angus's number. He is my G.o.dfather, the one I have most contact with, which is limited to text messages on birthdays on the years that we remember.

I dial his number and hold it to my ear, my heart pounding. h.e.l.lo Uncle Angus, Sabrina here, you haven't heard from me in almost a year but I've just learned that you and Dad were pals again before his stroke and I've also just learned that you knew his girlfriend. Could you please tell me, who is she? Because I don't know. I seem to be the only one, apart from Dad, who doesn't know.

No answer. I hang up the phone, feeling angry and stupid once again. As the anger surges through me I turn the key in the ignition and pull out. As I drive towards the hospital I hear Mattie's words in my head, calling Hamish a leech.