whisky by the fire.
The sea was grey and foamy, churning up the beach. Even the sand dunes had a grey, damp look, like heaps of aggregate at a building site.
‘I don’t want you to be disappointed if you don’t like what Patrick gives you,’ my father explained. ‘He doesn’t understand small children very well.’
‘But why not, Dad? Why doesn’t he?’ said Vivian.
Something foul and fishy had been deposited by the sea high up on the beach and half covered with sand. We were poking at it with sticks.
‘I want you both to behave very well,’ my father said, ‘so that when you leave Patrick will think to himself: What nice children!, I think I’d like to have some of those myself.’
It was a sensible warning. Patrick gave Vivian and me Harvard sweatshirts that were about eight sizes too big. If I still had mine, I would still be waiting to grow into it. But I heeded my father’s words and said nothing. Vivian couldn’t conceal his disappointment. ‘It’s a wearing present,’ he said. ‘I hate wearing presents.’
‘I love mine,’ I said smugly. ‘Dad, Vivian said he doesn’t like his sweatshirt.’
My father had given Patrick a miner’s helmet with a Davey lamp attached to it. Patrick put it on and mugged at Lydia, mocking the gift.
‘Dad, Uncle Patrick doesn’t like the hat!’ Vivian was thrilled.
‘Give it back, then,’ said my father. ‘You asshole!’ He was smiling. It was the first time I had ever heard him swear. They pretended to wrestle over the hat.
‘Dad, you said —’
‘Come on, give it a rest, Damien,’ my father said. ‘Lighten up.’
I think my lip must have trembled. I was being a tiresome goody-goody, but I was too close to my last fit of tears for me to take the comment in good spirit, and Patrick could see this.
‘Damien’s right,’ he said. ‘A gentleman should never swear or fart.’
‘I stand corrected,’ my father said.
‘Look at the parrot!’ screeched Patrick’s parrot.
Later on, Patrick showed off his toys to us. The board games, some of which he had designed himself, were too grown-up to arouse our interest. But I was captivated by a clockwork train and somehow got it into my head that Patrick had given it to me. My father quickly disabused me of this idea. He pointed out that I didn’t have room in my suitcase. I said I would leave my clothes behind.
‘It’s Patrick’s train,’ my father insisted. ‘And it will remain Patrick’s train.’ Patrick was sheepishly silent. Something he had said had sparked off the whole scene.
I threw a tantrum and was exiled to the summer kitchen until it was time to leave.
The rental car wouldn’t start, so Patrick drove us back to Westwich in his car – a white Triumph convertible with an eight-track tape player and an exhaust loud enough to announce the Last Judgement. He played Latin American pipe music at the highest possible volume to compete with the borborygmus of the engine.
I don’t remember much else about the trip. I was mortified not to keep the train, but in its place I had the inkling of something else: the distinct feeling that I was Patrick’s favourite; a feeling that was as small and steady as a pilot light – a feeling that I had begun to recall since I got the news of his death.
ELEVEN
MR DIAZ, PATRICK’S LAWYER , stopped by at about eight o’clock. Seeing him, I almost did a double take – he was boss-eyed: exactly as Mr Ricketts was in Patrick’s fragmentary story. In every other way, however, he couldn’t have been more different from a desiccated imperial administrator. He was a courteous man of around forty with olive skin. His jet-black hair was greying at the temples. The distinctive long vowels of his Boston accent sat oddly, I thought, with his suavely Mediterranean appearance. He refused my offer of a cup of Postum with humour. ‘Promised my wife I wouldn’t touch that stuff. I’ll take a glass of water, though.’
He apologised again for the mix-up
The sea was grey and foamy, churning up the beach. Even the sand dunes had a grey, damp look, like heaps of aggregate at a building site.
‘I don’t want you to be disappointed if you don’t like what Patrick gives you,’ my father explained. ‘He doesn’t understand small children very well.’
‘But why not, Dad? Why doesn’t he?’ said Vivian.
Something foul and fishy had been deposited by the sea high up on the beach and half covered with sand. We were poking at it with sticks.
‘I want you both to behave very well,’ my father said, ‘so that when you leave Patrick will think to himself: What nice children!, I think I’d like to have some of those myself.’
It was a sensible warning. Patrick gave Vivian and me Harvard sweatshirts that were about eight sizes too big. If I still had mine, I would still be waiting to grow into it. But I heeded my father’s words and said nothing. Vivian couldn’t conceal his disappointment. ‘It’s a wearing present,’ he said. ‘I hate wearing presents.’
‘I love mine,’ I said smugly. ‘Dad, Vivian said he doesn’t like his sweatshirt.’
My father had given Patrick a miner’s helmet with a Davey lamp attached to it. Patrick put it on and mugged at Lydia, mocking the gift.
‘Dad, Uncle Patrick doesn’t like the hat!’ Vivian was thrilled.
‘Give it back, then,’ said my father. ‘You asshole!’ He was smiling. It was the first time I had ever heard him swear. They pretended to wrestle over the hat.
‘Dad, you said —’
‘Come on, give it a rest, Damien,’ my father said. ‘Lighten up.’
I think my lip must have trembled. I was being a tiresome goody-goody, but I was too close to my last fit of tears for me to take the comment in good spirit, and Patrick could see this.
‘Damien’s right,’ he said. ‘A gentleman should never swear or fart.’
‘I stand corrected,’ my father said.
‘Look at the parrot!’ screeched Patrick’s parrot.
Later on, Patrick showed off his toys to us. The board games, some of which he had designed himself, were too grown-up to arouse our interest. But I was captivated by a clockwork train and somehow got it into my head that Patrick had given it to me. My father quickly disabused me of this idea. He pointed out that I didn’t have room in my suitcase. I said I would leave my clothes behind.
‘It’s Patrick’s train,’ my father insisted. ‘And it will remain Patrick’s train.’ Patrick was sheepishly silent. Something he had said had sparked off the whole scene.
I threw a tantrum and was exiled to the summer kitchen until it was time to leave.
The rental car wouldn’t start, so Patrick drove us back to Westwich in his car – a white Triumph convertible with an eight-track tape player and an exhaust loud enough to announce the Last Judgement. He played Latin American pipe music at the highest possible volume to compete with the borborygmus of the engine.
I don’t remember much else about the trip. I was mortified not to keep the train, but in its place I had the inkling of something else: the distinct feeling that I was Patrick’s favourite; a feeling that was as small and steady as a pilot light – a feeling that I had begun to recall since I got the news of his death.
ELEVEN
MR DIAZ, PATRICK’S LAWYER , stopped by at about eight o’clock. Seeing him, I almost did a double take – he was boss-eyed: exactly as Mr Ricketts was in Patrick’s fragmentary story. In every other way, however, he couldn’t have been more different from a desiccated imperial administrator. He was a courteous man of around forty with olive skin. His jet-black hair was greying at the temples. The distinctive long vowels of his Boston accent sat oddly, I thought, with his suavely Mediterranean appearance. He refused my offer of a cup of Postum with humour. ‘Promised my wife I wouldn’t touch that stuff. I’ll take a glass of water, though.’
He apologised again for the mix-up
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