They’re sitting at the dining-room table and the old man’s waving a greasy finger in the air. He’s not happy about something, but then, he never is. He doesn’t want them in his house. I told you when you left, he’s saying to Mum, you and that waste-of-breath son of mine. I told you, I never wanted to see you again. I said if you went, you needn’t bother coming back. So why did you?
Mum’s head is bowed. She never answers the old man, not unless he demands that she speaks. She reaches inside the sleeve of her jersey and pulls out a handkerchief. Gabriel knows what she’s going to do next. She’s going to dab at the corner of her mouth, touch the hanky to her swollen lip. The old man watches her. He doesn’t smile, but Gabriel knows he is smiling inside.
So why did you come back? His voice is louder now, and Mum’s going to have to answer. It’s a question he taunts her with regularly and her answer is always the same. We had to. We had nowhere else to go.
After supper, Gabriel goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. There’s a mirror above the sink, mottled with brown spots behind the silver. If he climbs onto the edge of the bath, he can see his head and his shoulders and part of his chest.
Gabriel lifts his arms, and flexes. If he was big, with muscles like Dad’s, he could stop anyone with one mighty blow. Even the old man with his strong white teeth and his strong body. Old people are supposed to be weak. Not this one.