‘Are you here on holidays? Going to do some sightseeing?’
‘We’re looking for property in the area.’ Dad smiled warmly at her.
‘Moving to London? From Ireland? Now? That’s a brave move.’
Dad said nothing.
‘What a lovely boy you have. What’s your name, sonny?’
‘Steve,’ Dad said before I could answer. She reached forward, and I don’t know if she was going to shake my hand or pat me on the head, but I jerked backwards.
‘Don’t mind him,’ said Dad, ‘he’s at that awkward age. Steve doesn’t like to be touched.’ He winked at her.
‘Oh well, that will change soon enough, won’t it?’ She laughed as I stared up at Dad. Steve?
‘I’ll pay cash up front if that’s all right.’
‘Well, you’re my favourite type of guest. I don’t mind. How many nights?’
‘Two to start with and then we’ll see.’
‘Bed and breakfast, or would you like evening meals as well?’
‘What’s the rate?’ said Dad.
‘Ten pounds per night, my love, twelve if you take dinner too. You won’t find cheaper.’
‘Well, Steve,’ said Dad, ‘will we take dinner as well?’
I nodded.
Dad counted out the notes. ‘I’ll pay for two nights then, please, and I’ll let you know tomorrow if I need to extend our stay.’
‘Great, well, the toilet is down the hall on your left and there’s a shower in your room. You can knock on my door if you need anything. Dinner at seven o’clock, okay?’ She handed over the keys and told us we were free to come and go.
Once inside the room, we saw that there was a bunk bed and a plastic shower cubicle in the corner. I had always wanted to sleep on the top of a bunk bed. ‘Dad! Can I go on top? Please, Dad?’
‘Yes.’ He put his finger to his lips then. We were both silent for a moment and we could hear Mona humming to herself.
Dad lowered his voice. ‘The walls are thin, we’ll have to whisper.’
‘Why?’
‘We don’t want them knowing our business.’
‘Who?’
‘Women,’ he said.
‘Is that why you told her my name was Steve?’
He grinned. ‘I think it suits you. Like Steve Austin. The Six Million Dollar Man. Shall we call you Steve from now on?’
‘Yes!’
‘And what will my name be? I’m bored with Conor Geary.’
‘James? Like Captain James Cook!’
‘James, yes, I like that. What about a surname?’
‘Armstrong, like Neil Armstrong.’
‘James and Steven Armstrong. I like it.’
For the first time since I saw the burglar, I felt at ease. Dad was smiling at me.
‘Right, you should probably stay here for safety’s sake. I’ll go and take a look around and see what I can find out.’
‘Where are we, Dad?’
‘Whitechapel in the East End of London.’
‘Are we safe here?’
‘I’ll always keep you safe, Steve.’
We grinned at each other. He rustled in his suitcase and took out some envelopes. ‘I’ll have to go and see a man about some passports.’
‘What man?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘Dad?’
‘Yes, Steve?’ I sniggered every time he said it in the beginning.
‘Is my disease a secret?’
‘It’s up to you, but I’d be afraid if you told people, they might want to test you. Everyone else who has it lives in a hospital. I’ve kept you out of them all these years.’
‘Wherever we go to live, can it be far away from a town or a city?’
He smiled. ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’
He left, warning me to lock the door after him.
We were thirteen nights in that B & B. Dad went out every single day. He didn’t shave in the mornings any more. He said he was growing a beard. He always put on the spectacles and the cap when he left the house. Mona wondered why I wasn’t accompanying him, and I told her to mind her own business. She didn’t ask after that. Dad said something to her about my hormones. He was always cheery and smiley with her. I stayed in the room by myself and Dad would bring sandwiches sometimes. Dinner by Mona was always strange. Rice and spicy meat stews. It took a bit of getting used to, Dad and I agreed, but by the end of our stay, we found that we enjoyed curries. Mona even told us how she made them and what spices she used.
‘Dad,’ I said one night, leaning over my bed to see him below, brow furrowed, ‘do you like Mona?’
‘Who?’
‘The landlady.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
I liked her, but I didn’t think Dad would approve.
Dad would often come back exhausted and weary. One night, I couldn’t avoid seeing bruises on his ribs as he was undressing for bed. He explained that he had tripped over a dustbin, and he winced as he put his arm into his pyjama top.
One day, he made me come with him. I was scared and excited. There were so many people around and I was nervous of bumping into them, so Dad sort of steered me by standing behind me and putting his hands on my shoulders. I liked that. It was a kind of game. We didn’t go far. He led me to the entrance of Whitechapel tube station. I knew all about the trains that ran underground, but I didn’t want to get on one. I’d seen them on TV, people packed like sardines hanging on to railings from the roof. I could not help tears springing to my eyes. We stopped before the barriers and turned to the left. Dad looked at me. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t want to go on the tube.’
‘Neither do I, so don’t be a girl and dry your tears, because we have to go and get our photographs taken.’ I was confused and wiped my eyes with my sleeve, but he led me to a small booth in the corner of the station. There was barely room for both of us in there, and he said we had to go in one at a time. I waited outside while he went in. I could see flashes of blue light coming from underneath the yellow half-curtain. We waited three minutes and then a row of four photographs came out of a slot in the wall of the booth. They were blank at first, but then, as if by magic, Dad’s image began to appear, his neat new beard appearing first and then the rest of his face. Then it was my turn. He adjusted the swivelling stool and I looked into a mirror that was to take my photo. ‘Don’t blink when it flashes,’ he said, and pulled the curtain behind him. I opened my eyes as wide as I could when the flashes came, but even then, when my image appeared out of the blur afterwards, my eyes were closed in two of the four photos. ‘That’s all right, we only needed one good one.’ He took me back to the B & B and I sat there reading Tom Sawyer, by now bored by the story I had read too many times.
On 31st March, Dad returned victorious with two passports in the name of Steven Armstrong and James Armstrong. They were small navy-blue booklets with our pictures and dates of birth in them. Dad’s birthday was wrong in his one but he said it didn’t matter. They said BRITISH PASSPORT at the top and then, underneath a royal coat of arms and at the bottom, in smaller writing, NEW ZEALAND.