The Undertow by Jo Baker

stoking. The One-Eared Man should have died too, or they should both have lived. And if his father had survived, and was here, now, at home with them, Billy’s pretty sure this Sully fellow wouldn’t be.
    Billy doesn’t like it, not one bit.
    His ma brings him up to bed, and says what a day it’s been, him starting work and now this, and aren’t they lucky to have Mr. Sully here to see them? And even though she’s right there, she’s somehow far away too. She waits while he says his prayers. Billy clamps his hands beneath his chin.
    As I lay me down to sleep
    I pray the Lord my soul to keep
    He squints up at her, one eye open, one eye closed, and says, “When is he leaving?”
    She’s looking off across the room, towards the curtained window. “What’s that, sugar?”
    “He’s brought a suitcase.”
    “Oh, he just came to tea. He’s not staying here.”
    Billy nods. That’s all right then. Goes back to his prayer.
    And if I die before I wake
    I pray the Lord my soul to take
.
    “Don’t you think it’s wonderful, though? A postcard from your father, after all this time?”
    He drops his hands. Looks up at her. She is all pink and glowy. She is never pink and glowy. It must be wonderful, if it makes her feel like this.
    “Yes, Mother.”
    She drops a kiss on his forehead. “Now go to sleep.”
    He stays awake though—listening to the voices through the floorboards. To his grandpa climbing the slow stairs, hours earlier than usual, and pausing at his door.
    “You all right, old fellow?” the old man whispers.
    “Yes, Grandpa.”
    “Good, good.”
    Billy listens to the old man make his way to his own room. He can hear the chink of the ewer, the clank of his belt buckle as he washes and undresses. Then the creak of bedsprings, and then again, as he turns to get comfortable. Lying down makes his lungs trouble him: he coughs hard, wet coughs. From downstairs, Billy can hear the dark rumble of the One-Eared Man’s voice, though he can’t make out the words. Next door the old man falls asleep—Billy can hear the thick, phlegmy breathing. He lies awake until he hears his ma and the One-Eared Man in the hallway—the man saying how wonderful, what a delight, though the circumstances of course, what a smart young man Billy has grown up to be, what a lucky man William was in this, if not in other matters. Quiet affirmations from his mother. The opening and closing of the door, and a farewell in the street. It is only then that Billy turns onto his side and lets himself soften into sleep.
    The next day, after school, when Billy gets back from climbing trees in the park and being shouted at by the parkie, the One-Eared Man is there.
    He stays to tea again, talking about himself, and eats three eggs and half a loaf of bread as Billy watches, biting his lip, wanting to ask what there will be to eat tomorrow.
    In bed, Billy lies awake, hot and seething, listening out for the voices in the hall, the opening and shutting of the door that means he’s gone. Why is she being so kind to him? Why is he allowed to eat up all their food? He can’t make sense of it.
    In the morning, loading up the bike at Cheeseman’s, he yawns so widely Mr. Cheeseman boggles his eyes at him and asks if he’s been burning the midnight oil. Midnight oil must be really beautiful, Billy thinks; blue as ink and rich as treacle and full of shivering colours. He says sorry, shakes his head clear of cobwebs, and swings up onto his bike and lets the cold November morning clear his head, and for a while is lost in the joy of the bike, and speed, and the buffetting of the cold damp air. But on the High Street he spots the One-Eared Man trudging along, collar up, hat down, slumped over to one side with the weight of his suitcase. He looks like he could have been walking all night.
    And that evening, while the One-Eared Man is pretending to read the paper, and Grandpa has taken himself out for a walk down to the wharves to see what ships are in, even