By the time Jimmy made it to the kitchen, his father had for-gotten his search for the mysterious whatsit and was sitting at the table, dressed in pyjama bottoms and a singlet. He was feeding his golden canary crumbs of broken biscuits Jimmy had got for him on the cheap. ‘Here, Finchie,’ he was saying, sticking his finger through the bars of the cage, ‘Here you are, Finchie love. There’s a good lad now.’ He turned his head when he heard Jimmy behind him.
‘Hello there! You’re dressed up, boy-o.’
‘Not really, Dad.’
His father was looking him up and down and Jimmy made a silent prayer he wouldn’t realise the provenance of the suit. Not that his father would’ve minded the loan, the old man was generous to a fault, rather the whole thing was likely to bring back confusing memories that would upset him.
In the end his father merely nodded approval. ‘You look very nice, Jimmy,’ he said, bottom lip trembling with paternal feeling. ‘Very nice indeed. You make a fellow proud, you do.’
‘All right, Dad, easy does it,’ said Jimmy gently, ‘I’ll get big-headed if you’re not careful. I’ll be a right horror to live with then.’
His father, still nodding, smiled faintly.
‘Where’s your shirt, Dad? In your bedroom? I’ll just go and fetch it—can’t have you catching cold now, can we?’
His father shuffled after him but stopped in the middle of the corridor. He was still there when Jimmy came back from the bedroom, a quizzical expression on his face as if he were trying to remember why he’d left his seat in the first place. Jimmy took him by the elbow and walked him carefully back to the kitchen. He helped him into his shirt and sat him in his usual seat; Dad got confused if he had to use any of the others.
The kettle was still half full and Jimmy put it back on the stove to boil. It was a relief to have the gas back on; the mains had been hit by an incendiary bomb a few nights back and Jimmy’s father had had an awful time trying to settle of a night without his milky cuppa. Jimmy spooned a careful portion of leaves into the pot but held off putting in more. Stocks were low at Hopwood’s and he couldn’t risk running short.
‘Will you be home for supper, Jimmy?’
‘No, Dad. I’m going to be out till late tonight, remember? I’ve left you some sausages on the stove.’
‘Right-o.’
‘Rabbit sausages, worse luck, but I’ve found you something special for after. You’ll never guess—an orange!’
‘An orange?’ The old man’s face flickered with the light of a passing memory. ‘I got an orange once for Christmas, Jimmy.’
‘Did you, Dad?’
‘Back when I was a nipper on the farm. Such a beautiful big orange. My brother Stevie ate it when I wasn’t looking.’
The kettle started to whistle and Jimmy topped up the pot. His father was crying softly as he always did when Stevie’s name came up, his older brother killed in the trenches twenty-five years or so before, but Jimmy ignored the fact. He’d learned over time that his father’s tears for past grief would dry as quickly as they’d come, that the best thing to do was to push on cheerfully. ‘Well, not this time, Dad,’ he said. ‘Nobody’s going to eat this one but you.’ He poured a good slug of milk into his father’s cup. His dad liked a milky tea and it was one of the few things they didn’t run short of thanks to Mr Evans and the pair of cows he kept in the barn at the side of his shop. Sugar was another story, and Jimmy scraped a small portion of condensed milk into the tea in lieu. He gave it a stir and carried the cup and saucer to the table. ‘Now listen, Dad, the sausages’ll stay warm in the saucepan till you’re ready, so there’s no need for you to turn on the burner, all right?’ His father was scratching his head and staring at the tablecloth. ‘Right, Dad?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Your sausages are cooked so don’t go turning on the stove.’ ‘Right-o.’ His father took a sip of tea.
‘No need to turn on the taps either, Dad.’
‘What’s that, Jim?’
‘I’ll help you get cleaned up when I get in.’
His father looked up at Jimmy, perplexed for a second, and then he said, ‘You look nice, boy-o. Off somewhere tonight, are you?’