‘I’ve got cake!’ she says, fizzing with excitement. ‘Special cake.’
‘More cake? Not the one for tomorrow?’ Luke likes getting things sorted out.
‘No, special cake. It’s ... it’s in a box.’
The cake box was on the floor of Mum’s kitchen and it’s making veryun-patisserie-like noises. Squealing noises, unhappy squealing noises.
Luke is on his knees in front of it in a flash.
‘Mum?’ He looks up to me.
‘Happy Birthday, darling. It’s from me and Granny. Or rather, they’re from us. Because we love you so much.’
He opens the box flaps as if opening an organ donor box, carefully, breath held and then we all saw the two inhabitants:short-haired, fluffy and with their little puppy faces in full moan as if the world was a cruel place and if they had someone to lick, it would all be rosy again.
‘Mum! Granny!’
Instinctively, Luke reaches in and gently lifts out the first puppy, who has a patch of dark brown over one naughty eye and an entirely white body. Left alone, the other puppy’s wails rise.
Luke scoops the second one out with one hand, this one dappled dark brown, pale brown and white. She looks scared and whimpers to be out of her box, but Luke gently holds the two of them close to his face, and croons at them.
‘You’re safe, we’re going to take care of you. And love you and kiss you and maybe you can sleep on my bed, but you can’t fall out in case you get hurt and I am going to love you and love you so much.’
The puppies start licking him ecstatically, as if Luke is what they have been waiting for all their tiny lives.
My mother and I look at each other and the tears in her eyes are reflected by the tears in mine.
Everything doesn’t happen for a reason, I know – except, perhaps, two puppies instead of one for a fatherlessten-year-old’s birthday.
13
Sid
Another Friday night, and it’s sleeting mildly as I hurry across the road from the office into The Fiddler’s Elbow to join the rest of the Nurture crowd for ourFriday-evening drink. I had somelast-minute emails to catch up on, so I’m all on my lonesome as I dodge traffic and arrive in the pub in a panting mess with sleety snow clinging to my hat, which is a very attractive item, being another of my black fluffymuch-washed items.
I wriggle through the crowds thronging the pub, all festively celebrating as I make my way to the snug. And suddenly I’m tapped on the arm.
‘Thought I’d find you here,’ says a familiar voice.
I turn around and there’s Finn, standing with two other guys. I can’t help it, I beam at him, and say, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘All his old friends are bored by him so he says he was going off to see his new friend,’ says one of the other guys, a slender man with very professorial round glasses and a beard, who is wearing what looks like three jumpers all at the same time. ‘We had to come along. Old Finn here needs help from time to time.’
‘What sort of help?’ I say, grinning.
They’re grinning back and the other guy is poking Finn in the ribs.
‘Basic conversation,’ says Mr Round Glasses.
‘Poor thing,’ I say, ‘so, doesn’t have many friends, does he?’
‘Well, we’re not his friends either, we’re colleagues,’ says the other man. ‘Friends with this fella? Are you mad? I’m Philip McDonald.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Modern Irish History.’
‘Lovely to meet you.’
Finn is openly amused and watches.
‘Michael O’Shaughnessy, Medieval,’ says Round Glasses.
