It was the only thing in the room. There was no furniture, nopictures, no telephone, no other books, only that.

It was not coincidence, Saul thought. They had not missed thatwhen they cleared out the flat. Saul recognized it. An ancient, veryfat red-bound A4 notebook, with snatches of paper bursting from itspages; it was his father’s scrapbook.

It had appeared regularly throughout Saul’s life. Every so oftenhis father would drag it out from wherever he hid it and carefullycut some article from the paper, murmuring. He would glue it into thebook, and as often as not write in red biro in the margin. At othertimes there was no article at all; he would just write. Often Saulknew these bouts were brought on by some political occurrence,something his father wanted to record his pontifications on, but atother times there was no spur that Saul could fathom.

When he was little the book had fascinated him, and he had wantedto read it. His father would let him see some things, articles onwars and strikes, and the neat red notes surrounding them. But it wasa private book, he explained, and he would not let Saul examine itall. Some of it’s personal, he explained patiently. Some of it’sprivate. Some of it’s just for me.

Saul removed himself from Deborah and picked it up. He opened itfrom the back. Amazingly, there were still a very few pages not yetfull. He flicked backwards slowly, coming to the last page that hisfather had filled. A light-hearted story from the local paper about aConservative Party fundraising event which had suffered a catalogueof disaster: failing electricity, a double booking and foodpoisoning. Next to it, in his father’s carefully printed letters,Saul read, ‘There is a God after all!!!’

Before that, a story about the long-running strike at theLiverpool docks, and in his father’s hand: ‘A morsel of informationbreaches the carefully maintained Wall of Silence! Why the TUG soineffectual?!’

Saul turned the page backwards, grinned delightedly as he realizedthat his father had been pondering his Desert Island Discs selection.At the top of the page was a list of old Jazz tunes, all with carefulquestion-marks, and below was the tentative list. ‘One: EllaFitzgerald. Which one??? Two: "Strange Fruit". Three: "All The TimeIn The World", Satchmo. Four: Sarah Vaughan, "Lullaby of Birdland".Five: Thelonius? Basic? Six: Bessie Smith. Seven: Armstrong again,"Mack the Knife". Eight: "Internationale". Why Not? Books:Shakespeare, don’t want the Bloody Bible! Capital? Com. Manifesto?Luxury: Telescope? Microscope?’

Deborah knelt beside Saul.

‘This was my dad’s notebook,’ he explained. ‘Look, it’s reallysweet…’

‘How come it’s here?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he said after a pause. He kept turning the pagesas he spoke, past more cuttings, mostly political, but here and theresimply something which had caught his father’s eye.

He saw small tales about Egyptian tomb-robbers, giant trees in NewZealand, the growth of the Internet.

Saul began to pull back clumps of pages now, going back years at atime. There was more writing in the earlier years.

7/7/88: Trade Unions. Must read old arguments! Had a long argumentwith David at work about Union today. He going on and on aboutineffectual and etc. etc. and I rather letting myself down, justseemed to sit there saying Yes but solidarity vital! He wasn’t havingany of it. Must reread Engels on Trade Unions. Have vague memories ofbeing rather impressed but could be fooling myself. Saul still verysulky. Don’t know what’s going on there at all. Remember seeing bookabout Teenagers and Problems, though can’t remember where. Must trackit down.

Saul felt awash with the same hopeless love he had felt when hehad shown Fabian the book his father had bought him. He was goingabout it all wrong, the old man, but all he wanted to do wasunderstand. Maybe there was no right way to do it. I was wrongtoo, he thought.

Back, back, he moved through the years. Deborah cuddled into himfor warmth.

He read about the time his father had had an argument with one ofhis history teachers over the best way to present Cromwell.

No, fair enough, maybe can’t be talking about Bourgeoisie to groupof ten-year-olds but shouldn’t be glossing over him! Terrible man,yes (Ireland, and etc. etc.) but must make clear nature ofRevolution!

He read a reference to one of his father’s girlfriends — ‘M.’ Hecould not remember her at all. He knew his father had kept suchaffairs out of the house. He did not think his father had had anyromantic involvement at all in the last six or seven years of hislife.

He read about his own fifth birthday party. He remembered it: hehad been given two Indian head-dresses, and in retrospect a thrill ofworry had passed around the adults, concerned at his reaction, but hehad been elated. To have not one but two of the beautiful featheredthings… He remembered the joy. Saul was seeking the firstreference to himself, maybe a mention of his dead mother, who hadbeen carefully excised from his father’s ruminations. A date caughthis eye: 8/2/72, the only entry from the year of his birth, the birthitself apparently not recorded. There was no cutting attached to theentry. Saul’s brow furrowed as he read the first few words.

We are a few weeks on now from the attack, which I don’t reallywant to talk about. E. is very strong, Thank God. Many fears, ofcourse, alleys and etc. etc., but overall she is getting betterdaily. Kept asking her was she sure, I thought we should go to thePolice. Don’t you want him caught? I asked her and she said No I justdon’t want to see him again. Can’t help thinking this is a mistakebut it must be her decision of course. Am trying to be what she needsbut God Knows it is hard. Worst at night, of course. Don’t knowwhether better to comfort/cuddle or not touch and she doesn’t seem toknow either. Definitely the worst times, tears etc. Am beating aboutthe bush. Fact is, E. had test and is pregnant. Can’t be sure ofcourse but have looked at timing carefully and looks very likely thatit is his. Discussed abortion but E. can’t face it. So after longhard talks have decided to go ahead. No record, so no one need know.Hope everything turns out alright. I’ll admit, I’m afraid for child.Haven’t yet worked out my own reaction. Must be strong for E.’ssake.

Saul’s chest had gone quite hollow.

Somewhere Deborah was saying something to him.

Oh, he felt stupid.

He saw what he had lost.

Stupid, stupid boy, he thought, and at the same time he wasthinking: You needn’t have worried, Dad. You were strong asfuck.

Tears came cold to his eyes and he heard Deborah again.

Look at what you lost, he thought. She died! he thought suddenly.She died, and still he did right by me. How could he? I killed her, Ikilled his wife! Every time he looked at me, wasn’t he looking at therape? Wasn’t he looking at the thing that killed his wife?

Stupid boy, he thought. Uncle Rat? When were you going to thinkthat one through? he thought.

But more than anything he could not stop wondering at the man whohad raised him, had tried to understand him, and had given him booksto help him understand the world. Because when he had looked at Saul,somehow he did not see murder, or his lost wife, or the brutality inthe alley (and Saul knew just how that attacker had appeared, as iffrom nowhere, out of the bricks, as he himself moved). Somehow, whenhe looked at Saul he looked at his son, and even when the air betweenthem had poisoned and Saul had exercised all his studied teenageinsouciance not to care, the fat man had still looked at him and seenhis son, and had tried to understand what was wrong between them. Hehad had no truck with the awful, bloody vulgarity of genes. He hadbuilt fatherhood with his actions.