When they came to a larger house behind a locked door and tall walls, Blackie looked at his uncle, and asked, ‘What sort of place is this? Do the gentry live there?’

Patrick shook his head. ‘Lift your eyes and look a bit further down, and you’ll see the sign. It has a name on it.’

Blackie did as he was told and read out loud, ‘Northcote Private School for Girls.’ Glancing at Patrick, he laughed and then said, ‘It might not be a house but it’s certainly grand.’ He emphasized this last word, and remarked, ‘A school for the local gentry, I suppose.’

Patrick said, ‘A posh school for the children of the families who are better off, but I wouldn’t call ’em gentry. More like well-to-do businessmen and the like.’

A moment later, Patrick explained, ‘Well, here we are … this is my house, Blackie.’

Patrick walked up the three steps to a narrow house and opened the door. ‘Here we are, we’re home, Eileen!’ he called out as he went in. Blackie was behind him.

Eileen was sitting by the fireplace in the small parlour, which had a comfortable and welcoming feeling about it.

She immediately stood up at the sound of her husband’s voice, and walked across to greet him and Blackie, smiling at them.

Her amazement shone on her face as she looked up at her nephew and, in one fell swoop, took everything in. ‘You’ve certainly grown up since I saw you five years ago!’ she exclaimed. She stepped closer and gave him a hug. ‘And you’re so tall.’

Blackie hugged her back and realized at once how narrow she was, and thin. When he finally released her, he looked down at her, smiling broadly. ‘It’s a joy to see ye again, Aunt Eileen.’

As he spoke he felt a small surge of relief. Her face was thinner, but she was still a beautiful woman, Black Irish beautiful, without a wrinkle on her smooth face or a white hair in her dark head. But he’d felt her bones when he had held her close. She, who had been so robust, had lost weight. Of course, she had been ill, and she had probably lost her appetite.

‘Let’s not stand around here,’ Eileen said, smiling up at Patrick, adoration reflected on her face. ‘Why don’t you take Blackie upstairs to his room, Patrick? And I’ll go and look in the oven. It’s time for tea.’

Pulling her to him, kissing her cheek, smoothing her jet-black hair with one hand, her husband smiled. His love for her flooded his blue eyes. ‘I’ll do that, my sweetheart, and what’s for tea? We haven’t eaten all day, except for the ham sandwiches.’

‘Then I’ll have it ready in a jiffy. You must be ravenous.’