Lifesaving for Beginners

that goes to the top. He says it’s like the lift in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory , which is one of his favourite books-made-into-films films. I love the views of the city from the bar. The pigeon houses, sturdy and dependable, in their candy stripe, lording it over Dublin Bay.
    Already, the lights are coming on around the city, like cats’ eyes, getting brighter as the pale light of afternoon drains away. I drink red wine, which is frowned on at the Guinness Storehouse, but not forbidden. I like the aesthetics of a pint of Guinness. The intricacy of the pour. The angle of the glass below the tap. The pause near the top to allow the stout to settle. The ceremony. I like that. It’s the taste of it I object to. Ed drinks a glass of it, sweetened with blackcurrant.
    In the restaurant, Ed eats Guinness and beef stew. He orders the same thing everywhere we go. The chicken wings in Elephant and Castle. The mussels in the Winding Stair. The profiteroles in the Talbot 101. And, of course, the lean-on-me pizza in the Leaning Tower of Pizza. He never deviates. He is a comforting restaurant companion. For a week after payday, Ed insists on paying. He says, ‘I’ll get this,’ when the waitress brings the bill in a leather wallet and hands it to me. He reaches across the table with his big smile and takes the wallet and says, ‘I’ll get this.’ He pays in cash. He has a laser card but he likes the heft of his wallet when there are notes inside. He leaves a tip. A big one. He winks at the waitress and says, ‘Keep the change,’ when she returns to the table.
    Adults don’t look at Ed. Not really. Children do. They look and they listen and then they turn to their mothers or fathers or childminders and they say, ‘Why is that man talking like that?’ And they are pulled away by their thin little arms and told to ssshhhh or be quiet or stop staring and they don’t know why, and so they grow into adults who don’t look at people like Ed.
    Thomas says, ‘Not everyone is like that.’ He likes to see the good in people.
    Ed says, ‘I got Faith a present.’
    When I don’t answer, he says, ‘Do you want to see it?’ He unzips the pocket of his anorak, digs his hand in and pulls out a square blue box, a little creased and dented at the edges. He undoes the pale pink ribbon that is tied round the box and lifts the lid. His movements are slow, careful. His tongue, trapped between his front teeth, pokes out of his mouth in concentration.
    The necklace is a silver one with a plaque that reads ‘Faith’, in old Irish script. When you see necklaces like these, dangling from a stand in a tourist shop with every name you can think of engraved along their plaques, you think nothing of them. Or if you do, you think they are cheap and tacky.
    Perhaps it is the box. The careful way that Ed handles the box. Or the way the necklace nestles inside the box, on a cloud of cotton wool. Or perhaps it is because the necklace is on its own and not jostling for position, dangling from a stand in a tourist shop with all the others. Maybe it’s the engraving on the other side of the plaque. The one that says ‘Love from Uncle Ed’.
    After a while, I say, ‘It’s lovely.’ My tone is brisk. Economical.
    Ed says, ‘I know.’
    I put my glass down and cover his hand with mine.
    ‘What’s wrong, Kat?’
    ‘I’m scared.’ I didn’t know I was going to say that.
    Ed looks around the restaurant. He turns back to me. ‘There’s nothing there, Kat. Nothing to be scared of.’
    I nod. ‘I know.’
    ‘You’re being silly.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘Why are you crying?’
    ‘I’m not.’
    ‘You are.’
    I grab a napkin and press it against my eyes. ‘I think I’m getting a cold.’ My voice sounds like someone is squeezing their hands round my throat. Ed looks worried and the doctor said he wasn’t to worry. No worry. No stress. No fried foods. Things like that are bad for his condition. I clear my throat. Put the napkin down. Straighten in my seat.
    Ed says, ‘Do you think Faith won’t like you? Is that what you’re scared of ? Because you don’t have a present for her?’
    I nod.
    Ed says, ‘She will like you, Kat. You’re the best.’
    I stand up. ‘We should go.’
    Afterwards, when I drop him home, Ed runs round to my side of the car and knocks on the window so I have to lower it. It’s cold enough to snow. He leans in and hugs me. I’m not mad about hugging but Ed is pretty good at it. Especially when it’s