IT ISN'T OVER TILL THEY PULL THE PLUG

You'll see a great change in him, his sister said, allowing him to go first into the ward.

She didn't say - specially since you haven't been here since last year - but it was implied.

In the high sided hospital bed, Brian's father appeared to be already dead. Waxen, bluish lids, sweeping glossy black eyebrows, fine prominent nose. He seemed his old handsome self again, spruced up, ready to meet his maker. No longer the dishevelled, unkempt, unshaven, huddled bundle, chain smoking in front of the television, lost in the imaginary community he had come to rely on for company, resenting unwanted visitors who asked silly questions during his favourite programmes

Just let him go, Brian remembered thinking last time. There are worse things than being dead.

His sister did not agree. THIS was when people NEEDED family - when they had no choice. Not when they were awkward, argumentative, refused help, were an embarassment. This was when families showed what they were made of.

Well, said Kathleen, addressing her father, you old bastard, that's put an end to your drinking and your gambling and your women.

Women? Brian was stunned. What do you mean? He would have laughed if he hadn't been so genuinely shocked.

Oho, don't give me that, his sister said.

No? Really? Women? My Da?

Huh, I thought it took one to know one.

Oh thank you Kathleen, thank you for that, thank you so much. Jesus, he thought, is it any wonder I stay away? His first wife Marie had been a neighbourhood chum of Kathleen's, that was before he ran off with The English One. He and Marie were now reasonably friendly again, but Kathleen had never forgiven him.

I have to pick the kids up from school, Kathleen said.

OK. I'll stay with him.

Oh, really?

Yes. Really.

I'll see you later then.

OK. See you later. He forced a smile. For Christ's sake. Just go will you.

She was still there. If you want anything, if there's any change, call the nurse.

God. Just make her leave will you. He tried to think of something civil to say. Do we have to have that television on?

Up to you, it drowns out the noise of the machines, I always keep it turned down low.

She left, gradually, reluctantly, resenting the burden of her father's illness, but reluctant to relinquish control. It was her gig. She was the one who bore the brunt of it all because she was the only one who hadn't moved away. It was just one of those things, it wasn't planned, it wasn't meant to happen that way...she knew they felt bad, but she couldn't resist rubbing their noses in it. She just couldn't help it.

I think she's got a grudge against herself, that one, Brian said to his father, when he was sure she'd gone.

The only response was the whirring and clicking of the machines.

I see what she means about the television though, he thought, turning it down to a murmur. He looked at the screen for a moment, then back at his father.

John Patrick Joseph O'Hare. Your name's enough to hang you, he used to tell them all with satisfaction.
.
Big John, with his trademark shock of curly black hair...bookie's clerk and tic tac man.
A wild, mad, poetic figure in his day. Or so it had seemed to his young son. Rarely to be found off licenced premises. Brian remembered all those hours spent in pub doorways with a bag of crisps and a bottle of cream soda.

His tight lipped mother used to send him out with his father in the hope that it would impede his drinking - or to make sure he found his way home if it didn't.

It wasn't so bad. Except in the winter. Or if you wanted to go to the toilet.
There were usually two or three other rag arsed kids there on the same detail. They all used to have a laugh. And they could always pick up a tanner or two here and there. Running messages. Or called into the bar at lock in to sing the auld come- all-ye's to the slobbering, bleary eyed punters..... ah Jeeze lads - The Galway Shawl My Mother Wore - sing The Galway Shawl ......

But women? How? When? More to the point - who? Neighbours? Friends?
Those starved looking wretches, in their freezing, ulcerated, cold-water kitchens, with their chapped hands and their chilblained shins. It seemed logical that sex was something they endured, not enjoyed. Not something they'd have done out of choice.

Brian studied his father's face.

Was our Kathleen right, he asked Big John, were you a fly man?

To his astonishment, the ghostly lips appeared to move.

He quickly pulled his chair next to the bed, bent his head close to his father's.

Did you say something? What did you say? He grasped him by the shoulder.

The lips moved again

Norway, the old man seemed to whisper.

Brian repeated the word over and over. Norway! Norway? Never! You've never been to Norway!

His father moved a finger in the direction of the television.

Could you repeat the question please Ann, the contestant asked.

Which country, beginning with N, won the first Eurovision Song Contest, said Ann wearily.

Oh - Norway! grinned the man with the bad comb-over.

Cor-rect! said Ann.

Fine wee woman that. Big John sighed and was content.