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waves of horror and gratitude and shame. Horror at the
thought that Fergus might not have been in the right place
at the right time; gratitude that he had been there; and
shame, yes, even that was related with Fergus, because Paul
believed he would never again have the strength to lift such
a heavy thing as a bottle of beer, let alone get it up to his
mouth. But there are moments that weld things together,
and this was such a moment. Fergus lent my father not only
his ear, listening patiently, nodding and giving him an
encouraging pat on the shoulder every now and then, but
he also handed him a bottle, at exactly the same moment as
I got mine from Nurse Marianne in the neonatal unit.
Fergus moved into Aza’s room. He didn’t need much: a
mattress, some borrowed towels, bed linen, a clothes rack
and a table lamp, which he placed on an upturned orange
crate next to the bed. Irene gave him one of her potted
cannabis plants, whose spicy fragrance helped me fall
asleep when Fergus took me in on the odd occasion when
Paul had a nocturnal visitor. Later, in a superannuated
armchair that Fergus retrieved from the rubbish dump a
few blocks away, I pulled myself up to stand unsteadily on
my own for the first time. The purple flowery fabric of the
armchair was threadbare at the edges and I loved poking
my fingers inside the bursting seams, interring marbles
inside it or hoarding coins that had rolled out of Fergus’
pocket behind the seat cushion and which he, with his
broad hands as big as I was once small, couldn’t fish out.