Little Dermot was crying about the water not being warm in the bath and I had regretted not throwing him into the second-hand slops of Fiadh.
“It doesn’t take much to give them all a fresh bath, Fabien. It’s not the 1960s.”
“There isn’t enough hot water.”
She shouted back up the stairs. “Your fault. You’re on bath duty.”
I washed the little boy’s hair and gave him a suds Mohican and took a picture and sent it to Fionnuala. She didn’t respond. I sat on the edge of the tub looking down at my son and I was abruptly overcome with emotion. Memories came flooding back of me being in the bath and my father singing Don Williams songs, his soft voice holding the tunes well: “But I believe in love / I believe in babies / I believe in mom and dad / And I believe in you.”
Where did that come out of? I already told you my dad died when I was 15, and long ago I had inched on from grief, but every so often it peeked up from behind a hedge. “Hiya! How’s it going, big lad? I haven’t gone away you know.” I always reminded myself that it was all right to look at the past, but don’t stare.
And then I was transported back again. I was in the Mandela Hall at Queen’s, Christmas 2001. Me and a few pals had gone to see Belle and Sebastian – a Scottish indie band – and had warmed up in Lavery’s Gin Palace on Shaftsebury Square. A favourite haunt. The pints were sweet and the craic was bubbling nicely and we weaved our way up to the student’s union.
The Mandela Hall was absolutely buzzing by the time we got in and the support act, The Frames, were just starting. I didn’t know them, but oh God, what a sound. This brilliant, passionate music with a lead singer that dived into his soul, singing songs I had never heard but that I would never forget. Then one song they played stopped me in my tracks. I wasn’t sure if I was hearing him right but the gist of it was: “Lay me down / In the hallowed ground / Where my father waits / Lay me down…”
And on and on he sang these lyrics, swirling round and round and I too began to swirl round and round. Like a fish on a line, I was helpless. He was singing to me. Had his father died when he was young? Was his father in the wet ground too?
Later that evening I was like a lunatic bouncing around the Holy Lands. “Would you calm yourself, Fabien. We’ll get lifted.” The lads were looking for a party and I was singing at the top of my voice: “Lay me down… Lay me down.”
“I’ll lay you out, you eejit.” My friends were being good natured but I was jumping on walls and lifting traffic cones and being an arse; my mind was full of pain and joy and confusion. I was thinking of my mother sitting up at our house all alone and sad. Never able to get over her husband dropping dead like a stone. No goodbyes. Just vanished.
I sat on the edge of the tub looking down at my son and I was abruptly overcome with emotion. Memories came flooding back of me being in the bath and my father singing Don Williams songs, his soft voice holding the tunes well: ‘But I believe in love / I believe in babies / I believe in mom and dad / And I believe in you’
Next thing a police car slowly appeared and I got the now-shut-up serious vibe from everyone as they put their heads down. I was trying to behave but took a swing of a kick at a bin and it crashed in front of the peelers. They stopped and got out of the car quickly and I sort of sobered up.
“I’m sorry, officers. Sorry. I’ll pick up all the rubbish. Look, I’m a bin man. Happy Crimbo! Here, why are you wearing new uniforms?” My friends were scundered but the policemen were happy enough with my contrite tone.
“We are a new police force son. Don’t you watch the news? Can you fellas get him home before we have to?”
“That’s sore, daddy.” I was drying Dermot like a demon. “Sorry, wee man.”
And I lifted him up and blew raspberries on his lovely little stomach and it was me that was crying now.