clear: he would have been lying on the floor of the cave while his son took over as the dominant male.
Eddie had returned late on Sunday afternoon.
At first there had been an ominous silence. Sitting in the living room, a newspaper on his lap, William had glanced nervously at Marcia. “He’s back,” he whispered.
Marcia raised a finger to her lips. “Wait.”
The silence ended. “What’s my stuff doing in the hall?”
Marcia indicated that there should be no reply.
“I said: What’s my stuff doing in the hall? Are you deaf, Dad?”
A few moments later, Eddie burst into the living room. The presence of Marcia took him by surprise and he stood quite still for a moment while he took in the scene. In the corner of the room, Freddie de la Hay, who had been dozing on his rug, raised his head to sniff at the air.
“Your dad and I have decided to live together,” Marcia said calmly. “So you’ll have to move out, I’m afraid.”
Eddie stared at her in blunt incomprehension. “I live here,” he said. “This is my place.”
“No, it isn’t, Eddie,” said Marcia, throwing William a discouraging glance. She would handle this. “You see, it’s normal for kids to move out … eventually. Your dad has tried and tried to help you to move on but you’ve never done anything about it. Now he’s decided that enough is enough.” She paused. “And if you look on the top of the pile of clothes in the hall there’s a piece of paper with an address. That’s a landlady who’s agreed to give you a room for two weeks while you find somewhere yourself. Your dad has paid for that.”
Eddie, who had been glaring at Marcia, now turned to his father. “Dad …?”
“I really did try, Eddie,” said William. “Remember the flat I found for you—the one that I offered the deposit for? And the housing association place … And …” He had tried; it was true. He had tried on numerous occasions, taking Eddie to letting agents, dictating advertisements for him—advertisements that attracted offers his son had no intention of replying to—in short, doing everything that a parent could possibly do to help his son get started by himself. And it had all been to no avail, which had made him wonder whether this was his sentence in life: to be saddled indefinitely with a dependent, layabout son. Did he really have to accept that? Was that a concomitant of parenthood, an inescapable moral burden of the act of reproduction?
He looked at Eddie hopelessly, but Eddie had turned to Marcia and was pointing a finger at her. “——,” he said. “——, ——, ——!”
“It’s no good using that language, Eddie,” said William.
Marcia smiled. “I’ve heard all that before, Eddie.”
“——,” screamed Eddie. “——!”
It was at this point that Freddie de la Hay, disturbed by the human conflict he was witnessing, rose from his rug and lifted his snout in the air. “——,” he howled. “——!”
“Look,” said William reproachfully, “you’ve upset Freddie de la Hay.”
Eddie turned and stared at the dog. Then, walking swiftly across the room, he kicked him.
63. My Door Is Always Open
NOW, SITTING IN the office on Monday afternoon, Marcia and William could look back, if they wished, on that moment of truth and reflect on the efficacy of direct, unambiguous action. And it had been effective: Eddie had stormed out, taking, significantly, his sponge bag and his well-used duffel bag. The note with the address of the landlady had been torn up and thrown on the floor, but, curiously, it had been replaced with another note, this time in Eddie’s hand, saying: “Thanks a lot, Dad! After all those years, this is what I get! Anyway, when you eventually succeed in chucking that woman out of your life—and I feel really sorry for you, Dad—then get in touch with me at Stevie’s place. I’ve written the address below. My door is always open, Dad. You know that. Blood is thicker than water, Dad!”
For William, the whole situation had become so painful that he preferred not to think about it. But at least the strategy had worked: Eddie had moved out and the lines of communication between them still appeared to be open. He would contact his son in a week or two. He would continue to pay the money that he transferred into Eddie’s account each month. That would cover his rent and give him a bit left over. He had to do that; he could not cut him