Grandad was waiting for me after school, which threw not just a spanner in Daniel’s works, but a whole toolkit.
Descriptive note: grandfather on father’s side. Name: Patrick ‘Pop’ Fitzgerald. Age: … ancient. Once referred to himself as ‘older than God’s dog’. When pressed, admits to being as old as his tongue and slightly older than his teeth. He is a collection of wrinkles in a nest of greyness. Was once in the armed forces and served in a war overseas, but never talks about it. Has a puckered scar on his right arm that might be a souvenir of conflict, but never talks about it. Lives by himself in a two-bedroom apartment for the aged in a serviced facility. Refers to the facility as the ‘place where a bunch of old farts hang around, waiting to die’. Or, occasionally, ‘God’s waiting room’. Was married to my grandmother (duh) but she must have died a long time ago because he never talks about her. Neither do Mum or Dad. Grandad uses bad language a lot and doesn’t like many people. He likes me.
‘Hello, Pop,’ I said. He was leaning on his cane and sucking at his teeth, which he does almost constantly. Often this results in a high-pitched whistling sound like the ancient kettle he puts on the gas ring back at his apartment. It’s eerie.
‘Hello, young Rob,’ he said. ‘Would you like to accompany your old grandad to a fast-food restaurant for an after-school snack?’
‘Yes, please,’ I said.
‘Tough,’ he said. ‘Never been in one and not starting now. Blankety places use blankety offal.’ (You perhaps need to know that he doesn’t actually say ‘blankety’ – use your imagination.)
‘Awful?’
‘Offal. Guts, brains, bumholes. Dip ’em in batter, deep fry ’em, serve ’em up. Blankety criminal it is.’
‘Deep-fried bumholes?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So why did you offer to take me?’
‘Because I’m blankety kind and generous to a fault, that’s why.’
‘So where should we eat then?’
‘Nowhere. I’m not made of blankety money, you know.’
It takes a while to get used to Grandad. It’s been thirteen years for me, and I’m still working on it. In the end, we strolled back to his place and he made me a cup of tea with the whistling kettle. He bustled about in a cupboard, sucking his teeth, so I had the whistle in stereo.
That stopped him bustling. And whistling. He turned to face me.
‘Who with?’
‘A girl.’
He slapped his palm against his forehead.
‘Well, I didn’t think you were in love with a boy, yer blankety bozo. What’s her name?’
‘Destry.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Destry. Destry Camberwick.’
‘That’s not a name. That’s an eighties rock band.’
‘She’s perfect.’
‘Well, her name isn’t.’
I sighed, probably quite dramatically. Grandad echoed me.
‘C’mon, young Rob,’ he said. ‘I’ll break open the Arnotts, you can dip ’em in yer tea and tell me all the sordid blankety details.’