— Get a grip! she shouts. Only six more left. Bring your left foot into it. Easy with your hip.
— All right, Nana.
— Pretend it’s rocket science.
Lottie reaches down for another ball. A slight twinge in her back. A whisper of genetics. A drop of sweat thickens over her lip. She straightens up. She is amazed to see Tomas, at the back of the court, leaning down to pull up his socks, all six foot two of him, beginning to bounce on his toes, the Björn Borg shuffle. She cannot help but chuckle. She rolls the white ball in her fingers, releases it and knocks it gently towards him, the ping off the strings, making sure it has enough of a bounce for him to come in beneath it, and he does, with great gusto. She expects him to miss it altogether, to swing empty, or to balloon it over the fence, but he connects with the ball, and not only that, but he turns his wrist over it, follows through with his shoulder, steps his left foot forward, brings every long inch of himself into the motion, and it whizzes past her at the net, a perfect height, a proper speed, and she turns to see it land, and although both of them know that it bounces inches outside the line, she shouts rather too loud: In!
ON THE DRIVE back to Belfast they are stopped at a checkpoint on the Milltown Road. A half dozen young soldiers, fresh-faced, camouflaged. Always a tingle of fear at the back of her neck. Tomas rolls down his driver’s-side window. They are, they say, checking licenses. Not normally a soldier’s job, but Lottie says nothing. The young soldiers are no older than Tomas himself. A bit scruffy and open-necked. Once upon a time they dressed smartly: shining brass badges and pipe-clayed belts.
One of them leans in the window and glances at her. A whiff of tobacco from him. She is hardly a vision in her wide white skirt and open cardigan, she knows, but she gives him a full smile and says: Anyone for tennis?
The soldier is not too fond of flippancy — no love, no deuce — and he walks the full length of the car, circles it slowly, checks the R sticker on the back, then touches his hand against the bonnet for heat, to see how far they have been driving. Since when might grandmother and grandson be a suspicion? Where might their rocket launchers be hidden? How likely is it that they are off down the Falls or the Shankill for a spot of punishment beating?
Not a word is exchanged and the soldier flicks his head. Tomas puts the car in gear, careful not to make too quick a getaway, towards the house just off the Malone Road.
IT HAS BECOME somewhat shabby over the years, though it has remnants of Victorian beauty. Redbrick. Bow windows. Three stories. Intricate lace on the curtains.
They step down the narrow path, amid the floribundas, the tennis bag over her shoulder. They stop at the cracked steps and he leans down to kiss her cheek.
— Night, Nana, he says, and his lips brush her ear. He has lived these past few months downstairs in the basement flat. Close enough to the university and far enough away from his stepfather. She watches him descend, a little gusto in his step, his blond curls darkening in the shadow.
— Not so fast, hey.
She has taken on many elements of the northern accent, though it is still bedrocked by her Newfoundland days, so there are times that it catches, and the music mixes, and she is not sure which is which anymore. Tomas trundles back up the steps, aware of what is coming. Their Wednesday ritual. She slips the twenty-pound bill into his hand, tells him not to spend it all in one bookshop.
— Thanks, Nana.
Always the quiet boy. Model airplanes. Adventure books. Comics. As a child he was always well-kept in his school uniform: shirt, slacks, polished shoes. Even now, in university, his scruffiness has a slight edge of stiff to it. She would like one day for Tomas to come home in one of those ripped-up T-shirts, with safety pins amok, or a bolt of a ring in his ear, show some proper rebellion, but she knows full well he will probably spend the money wisely, put it towards a telescope or a star map or some other such practicality. He might even put it away for a rainy day, hardly a good idea in this sodden city.
— Don’t forget to phone your mother and father.
— Stepfather.
— Tell them we’ll be out for the weekend.
— Ach, Nana, please.
He loves the cottage out at Strangford Lough, but dislikes his stepfather’s hunting weekend with a passion, poor boy. Hannah’s husband is a gentleman farmer, and he has arranged it for many years, first weekend in September, duck season. More of a Tuttle than the Tuttles themselves.
Tomas darts his eyes heavenward, smiles, ambles down the steps towards the garden flat. Glad now, she’s sure, to get away.
— Oh. And Tomas?
— Aye, Nana?
— Find yourself a girlfriend for crying out loud.
— Who’s to say I don’t already?
He grins and disappears. She hears the basement door close, and she climbs, alone, to the house. A scraggly dog rose runs up along the steps to the house. A city flower. A climber. Yellow with a small red center. Every bloom with its own little violence.
Lottie stops in the stained-glass doorway. Puts her key in the wobbly latch. The paint is chipping from around the letterbox, and the base of the door has begun to crack. Hard to fathom, but it is almost fifty years since she first stepped through these very doors. Back then it was all fine silverware and high bookcases and shelves lined with delicate Belleek china. Now it’s smoke-tarred lightbulbs. Water stains. Peeling wallpaper. She shouts out a greeting to Ambrose but there’s no reply. The door of the living room is slightly ajar. He is at his desk, the round white of his dome shining. Hunkered down into the checkbook, stacks of papers scattered all around him. Deaf as a post. She leaves him be, steps along the squeaky floorboards, past the gauntlet of her recent watercolors, some of her old photographs, into the kitchen, where she drops her keys, runs the tap, fills the pot, lights the stove, waits for the whistle. Some chocolate biscuits, why not? Four of them on a plate, the sugar, the milk jug, the pair of spoons nestled together.
She elbows the door gently, goes quietly across the worn carpet. A row of tennis trophies on the shelf to the side of the mantel. Mixed doubles, all. She was never one for singles. Always liked the company of a man, though she was tall and strong, known for taking the back court at times. Could whip the backhand down the line. Always loved, afterwards, the dinners in the clubhouse. The champagne toasts, the trill of laughter, cars weaving down the road in a firefly line of headlights.
Ambrose is startled when she slides the tray onto the edge of his desk, sends a fountain pen rolling towards his lap. A curmudgeonly grunt, but he catches the pen in midflight. She kisses the cool of his temple near a bloom of dark skin. She should bring him to see a dermatologist one of these days. Small isolated continents mottling his scalp.
His desk is an endless stretch of debt. Bank statements. Canceled checks. Letters from creditors.
She leans her chin on the top of his dome and kneads the ample flesh of his shoulders until he loosens a little, and allows his head to fall back against her. She can feel his hand stretch the round of her bottom, happy to see he’s still capable of adventure.
— So how was Stranmillis?
— He’s ready for center court. Any day now.
— A good wee lad.
— We crashed a checkpoint on the way home. A high-speed chase.
— Is that so?
— We lost them in Crazy Prices. Down by the fruit aisle.
— They’ll get you yet, he says. You can’t escape.