Paper Man by O'Callaghan Billy

Author:O'Callaghan, Billy [O’Callaghan, Billy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2023-01-26T00:00:00+00:00

Revelation

Cork, 1980

Samuel enters the house with all of his usual bluster, a big man filling the narrow unlit hallway. He removes his hat, shrugs off his overcoat and muttering his discontent about the meanness of the weather presses a kiss onto his daughter’s offered cheek, then scoops up Hannah, who has come running to meet him, and in a sudden way that draws shrieks of terrified delight lifts her high over his head and thrusts her almost to the ceiling.

‘Don’t, Dad,’ Rachel pleads, through her daughter’s piercing howls. ‘It’s close to her bedtime. You’ll get her all worked up.’

‘Ah, would you stop?’ he says, hoisting the child again and again, throwing and catching. She bleats happy laughter and slaps in helpless fashion at the top of his head. ‘I’m hardly going to let her fall, am I? Sure, don’t I only have the one granddaughter?’

When he finally sets her down she stands before him, waiting while he turns back to where his overcoat is hanging on the newel post at the end of the stairs banister. Having seen this game played out so often, Rachel utters an exasperated sigh, tosses up her hands in despair of them, turns and walks off, abandoning them to their corruption. Once she is gone he sets about fumbling through the coat’s pockets, drawing out the search in order to fully test the child’s patience, pulling an increasingly concerned expression, as if fearing that what he’s seeking has been somehow lost, then at last draws from its concealment a bar of Golden Crisp.

Hannah’s face lights up and she dances impatiently from foot to foot, her gaze fixed only on the chocolate.

‘Now this is for after your tea,’ he says, his voice turned all the way down but still trying for authoritative. ‘All right? Otherwise, I’ll have your mother to deal with. And don’t forget to brush your teeth afterwards.’

She nods her head keenly, drags at his sleeve until he drops into a crouch, kisses him hard on the cheek and throws her arms tight around his neck. ‘Thanks, Grandad,’ she says, whispering it as if sharing a secret. ‘I promise I won’t even tell.’ Then, without waiting, she darts away into the living room, the precious chocolate bar clasped in both hands, and through the doorway left ajar he sees a television screen full of Charles Mitchell, a face somewhere between middle-aged and elderly, notably creased and made long by a balding pate, reading the evening news. He’s outlining plans for the new twenty-pound note scheduled to enter circulation from the end of the month, blue in colour and featuring the image of W. B. Yeats over a background representation of Cú Chulainn, hero of the Ulster Cycle, and the fabled wolfhound from whom his name was drawn.

In the kitchen, Rachel has returned to cutting and buttering thick slices of white batch bread. The kettle on the stove is whispering towards boiling point, alongside kippers poaching above a low flame in a large blackened pan.

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