In Carncloon, Mammy blesses herself if the RUC cross in front of her. RUC stands for Royal Ulster Constabulary and anything with the word ‘Ulster’ in it is not good for us. She makes out that they smell, holding the corner of her headscarf across her nose and mouth. Never forget, as long as you’re spared, Mary Rattigan, that these so-called policemen are little more than poodles for the British Army, she says. I don’t know what a poodle is but I do know she really doesn’t like the British Army. It has come here to keep us in line and she doesn’t like being told what to do in her own country, No Siree Bob.

I have to be a good Catholic because of the Troubles, better even than Mammy and she is a top sayer of prayers. I am the next generation and I must be ready to fight because my grandfather, Captain Sean McPartland, gave his very life for Ireland. He was a patriot.

The sounding of the Angelus bell on the wireless at six in the morning, midday and six at night is devoted to him and his sacred memory and we all must stop to pray. Mammy drops to her knees like a pig hit on the head with a hammer and knocks out a dozen Hail Marys and a few Our Fathers double-quick time before getting on with her day.

She likes us children to be quiet. Empty vessels make most sound, she says if she catches us talking. Talking is best left to adults who understand the world like she does although she would never blow her own trumpet, that would be a sin. The name of that sin is pride. I have the sin of pride to confess. I thought I could keep a S.E.C.R.E.T. in The Hill. Mammy does not allow secrets.

My brother Mick thought we could fool her too. I worry about him. Even though he’s older, he’s softer than me. He wets himself now since the bad thing happened and it’s my job to strip off the sheet and tell him not to cry over spilt milk. Crying is for cissies and Mammy would rather lose all of my brothers to the UVF than rear a cissy. UVF stands for Ulster Volunteer Force.

He has the same scary dream as me. We dream of drownings, of choking water and little lungs being shut down, of Mammy laughing as we cry, but he tries to do the job of a big brother. Just screw your eyes tight shut, he says, until you can see nothing but blackness. If it doesn’t work for you, Pish-the-Bed, why would it work for me, says I, and we both snigger even though it’s not funny.