He had spotted Kitty many times since, but he would never tell anyone in case they said he was mad and carted him off down to the priest, for it was well known that the priest had children taken away for being mad and they never came back. ‘Gone over the water,’ his mam had once told him when he asked about a young girl who had lived nearby. Everyone on the four streets knew she had been pregnant, but no one knew who by or what had happened to the baby.

‘Moral indecency, that’s what the priest at St Cuthbert’s said. He arranged it. God love her, she will never get out of that place, so she won’t,’ were the words he had heard as the women gathered in groups in the street to smoke and chatter. And then, suddenly, no one mentioned her name any more, for she had had sex. She must have, despite her protestations and it must never be spoken about, for fear it would become contagious. It seemed to little Paddy that everyone, except himself, had forgotten her. He often thought of her because she had been so pretty and so studious, in and out of the presbytery every day with her books and her Bible.

‘There are too many visitations of the Holy Spirit and immaculate conceptions around here for it to be true,’ he had heard one of the women say.

‘And to think, everyone thought she was going to take the veil,’ he had heard his mam say to his da. ‘She was never out of the priest’s study.’

Paddy opened the green canvas army surplus bag that he had left in the outhouse and had collected on the way out of the back gate. When Max had finished his breakfast, he would transfer him into the bag whilst he kicked a ball around with the others, if Malachi would let him. It was Malachi Malone who decided whose feet could touch the ball and only the chosen few were allowed to play and the agreement was that Malachi was allowed to score the most goals of the day. Only yesterday, Malachi had become so bad-tempered with one of the boys who scored five goals in a row that Malachi picked up the ball and marched home with it under his arm, hurling abuse over his shoulder as he went. The disappointment of thirty boys on the bombed-out wasteland, especially those still waiting to play, was palpable.

‘Aw, come on, Malachi, be a sport! If you want to go home for your tea, leave the ball and I’ll bring it back later,’ little Paddy had called as some of the younger boys began to cry and Paddy had felt for them. ‘Come on, Malachi, don’t be giving out like that now, be a good sport and let the little fellas play.’