I let myself into the room and spotted the one thing out of place straight away. He’d left a book open on the bed. Helmut Newton, said the cover. I’d not seen it before. How had I missed it after all my poking about? The photographs inside were very saucy: all made-up nudey-rudey women and bare bottoms. It roasted my face to look at them and I did look at every single one of them, pored over them ’til I had them by rote.

To darling John, love always, Catherine. The same neat hand I’d seen printed on the inside of so many of the books I’d borrowed signed herself off with a few kisses.

What kind of a tramp must this Catherine be to give a boy a book of photographs like that? She was worldly, she was sophisticated; not like me, the farmer’s daughter who lived at the bottom of the hill she was born on. She was golden-haired and golden-limbed. She was still in his life.

I ran for my empty boxes and packed up all of the books, slamming Catherine the T.R.A.M.P. right at the bottom so she couldn’t be seen. I packed his clothes, shoes and coats, his radio and alarm clock. I stripped his bed, pulling the sheets and blankets off it and dragging them all to the floor in a high pile. I kicked them in their soft guts over and over again ’til I was totally out of puff. Then I folded them neat as pie and carried them to the kitchen, a portrait of calm. Bridie said, do you want tea? You look done in! I said, sure, I’ll take tea.

What’s another year to someone who’s getting used to being alone, wails Johnny Logan from the wireless for the millionth time, what’s another year to someone who’s lost everything that he owns? If I have to listen to that Eurovision shite just once more I’m going to throw the batteries over the hedge.

The sound of the tractor towing the caravan comes to me on the river and I know I won’t have long to gaze my last at the little house as it stands, my oubliette of four years. The picture of the Sacred Heart left a paler cream rectangle and the old black-framed mirror is already sitting out on the street bouncing the light back too brightly. All that remains is the kettle as the yellow range will be kept stoked until we get the gas cylinder hooked up to the two-ring cooker.

Mammy, look, a house on wheels! says Serena.