A Bit of News  by Ron Woods

I CAN COUNT on one hand the number of times my dad has picked up the phone to call me. In fact I can count the number on just three fingers, and each time he started with “your mammy just wanted me to ring and ask/check/remind you . . .”

So his most recent call, to my mobile, while I was at work, was as much a surprise to me as the others only this time he began differently.

“I’ve had a bit of news and I thought I should ring to let you know.” I squeezed the phone tighter, in my mind I repeated the phrase, “please let it be a new car”, but the tone of his voice and the ache in my stomach told me that this wasn’t going to be his bit of news.

“Oh yeah?” I tried to fake a lightness in my tone.

“Well I was telling you that I had to go for a few tests.” “No.” “Did I not tell you?” He sounded surprised, he was better at faking. “Well I had them and the results were pretty much as expected.” I wondered if this was good or bad.

“It’s not looking great,” he said. “It would have been a lot better if they’d found it sooner.” I slumped over the desk, raising a hand to my forehead to cover my face from the people around as I searched for the right thing to say. In the background I could hear his dog barking, I pictured his big slobbering face as he scratched at the back-door.

“Is the dog looking to get out?” was the best I could come up with.

“Ach don’t mind him, he’s just annoyed because your mother wouldn’t bring him to the shops with her.” He paused for a moment, I felt he was working up to saying something more. “Would you take him?” “To the shops?”

He laughed, just a little snuffle of a giggle.

“No, not to the shops ya eejit. Would you take him for me? He’s a bit too much for your mother to handle on her own.”

“Yeah, no problem,” I said. He couldn’t have known there were tears in my eyes, I was getting better at faking.

“Sure the kids are mad about him.”

I leaned further into the desk, covering the mouthpiece to clear my throat before asking, “Do you want me to come over?” “Maybe on Saturday,” he said.

“I don’t want any fussing.”

I searched again for something practical or sensible to say. “Well is there anything else you need, anything at all? Do you need money?”

I cringed when I said it.

“Oh that’s the other thing I meant to tell you.”

He was giggling again.

“I didn’t want your mother coming in to the consultant with me, you know how she gets sometimes. So I sent her out to get me a quick-pick for the Lotto. Five numbers, fifteen hundred quid. Am I lucky or what?”

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