Departures by Jennifer Cornell Read Free Book Online Page B

which made no profit, and all of his money was tied up in its stock. He was in competition with three other bargain gift and toiletry shops, all of which had sprung up like weeds after he had established his, and all of which were owned and operated by Pakistani immigrants. He lived alone somewhere in Lisburn, though most evenings he slept on the floor in the unfurnished flat above his shop, so convinced was he that “the Pakis” were plotting to destroy him. For protection he had installed an expensive sprinkler system and an electronic, high-sensitivity alarm, but he refused to take the cheapest and most reliable option and simply get a guard dog. Having grown accustomed to being responsible for nothing but himself and his merchandise, the thought of having to feed or care for anything else annoyed him. It was only natural that he would resent being burdened with Harry when the old man’s wife passed on.
    Harry’s wife Eleanor had been a clever woman, and she’d known her nephew well, but even she had not been able to plug every loophole in her will. She had stipulated that if Geordie valued his inheritance he would have to “provide” for Harry, but she had not required that he provide for him himself. When we took over the abandoned house beside Harry’s three months after Eleanor died, Geordie was still trying to rid himself of his uncle. He had by this time discovered that all Harry’s cronies were dead and that most of his neighbours were in the same state of decrepitude as Harry himself. The list of people requesting home help or the attention of a social worker was a long one, and Geordie was not inclined to wait. The only option remaining was to have his uncle taken into care, but as there was nothing seriously wrong with him he could not be institutionalised without his consent, and this Harry simply would not give.
    Harry was proud of the fact that he had no need to move. His wife had seen to it that the house in Park View Terrace was indisputably his and that everything in it was in his name. Moreover, Harry did not want to move. He and his wife had been married in that house; his daughter had been born in it. He had christened his grandson in the Presbyterian church around the corner and had walked with his son-in-law in the park across the way the night before he’d immigrated to Australia with Melanie and the boy. Harry watched the changes in the photos his daughter sent and which he carried with him whenever he went out. The boy had grown bigger, every year taller and with ever more chestnut hair. Melanie was fuller, more like a woman than the girl he had reared, but still she sent her greetings to the neighbourhood as she did to the friends from her childhood she had left behind: Who looked after her garden now that Mrs. Baird had died? What about the Stadium—had they finally torn it down? And Olive Street, Yew Street, Ottawa and Chief—were they all still there and the same as before?
    His daughter wrote to him faithfully every fortnight, and Harry would read her letters aloud to his nephew as soon as they arrived. The wee girl’s counting on me, George, he’d say when he finished. How could I move away?
    Geordie soon tired of his cousin’s abject affection for the Road. He visited his uncle as infrequently as possible and begrudged him even that small fraction of his time. Yet despite his appearance Harry was quite fit for his age. His bones were not brittle, he had never smoked, and with luck, the doctor had told his despondent nephew, he could very well outlive them both.
    Geordie had a reputation for seizing opportunities, and he did so with ferocity. Our arrival in the Woodvale was just such an opportunity, for my father was the candidatefor whom Geordie had been searching: neither too old nor too young, in perfect health, conveniently located and seldom away from the house. Moreover, he was economical. Squatting was illegal; far from