“So, get them out,” the bailiff says.

None of us moves to do it.

He scowls down at the five of us from on top of his horse’s back. “The troublemaker can do it,” he says.

“Me?” Paddy blusters, gesticulating with his arms. “What do I tell her then? That even though she’s a poor, starving widow with four children to look after, her landlord isn’t rich enough yet and he needs to boot her out of her little hut here so he can sleep at night? Is that what you want me to go in there and say?” Paddy throws his club back into the dirt.

The bailiff runs his hand over his face. We can all see he’s regretting having chosen Paddy to come along. “The black-haired troublemaker can do it. And if you don’t stop throwing your club about, you’re off this gang and they’ll do the job without you.”

Killian, Liam and Seamus all have black hair too, but I’m the only other one who spoke out, which would make me the black-haired troublemaker.

“Off you go then, Henry,” Paddy says to me. “You’ll think of something to say.”

Mary’s hut is rocks and dirt walls. There’re no windows and I have to duck to get through the door. Inside it’s dark and damp and there’s a lingering scent of piss and shit from poor John who couldn’t get up in the end to relieve himself. I guess there’s only so much you can scrub out of a dirt floor.

Huddled in a pile of rags on the ground, Mary sits with her four children. The hunger’s hit her bad. Her arms are bone-thin and her skin hangs about her face with no padding to fill it out.

“There’s an eviction gang here, Mary.”

She doesn’t move or even look at me. She just stares at the wall of her hut.

“You have to go now.”

She doesn’t seem to recognize me or hear what I’m saying.

“The bailiff’s here and everything.”

She blinks a few times and lays her hand on her wee one’s head. “No,” she says to the wall.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But you haven’t paid your rent. They won’t let you stay.”

She sighs and settles further into the cluster of rags that serves as their bed. “No.”

The bailiff yells into the squat doorway, “Get them out, or we’ll tumble it on their heads.”

I hold out my hand to her. “Come on, Mary. You don’t want your children getting hurt.”

“What difference does it make if we die in here today, or out there in two weeks?” she says. “You know we won’t survive with John gone and no place to live.”

“We look after each other here,” I say. “You know that. You’ll be all right.”

I’m lying to a widow so I can tumble her home. This is what Da wanted to spare me. There was a time when we used to help each other. Now we just survive.