The next surprise he produced was a big cut of meat, dark and red with barely an ounce of fat on it. ‘It’s venison,’ Billy announced. ‘It’s what them who’s better than us eat. Well, I say, tomorrow we Brogans are just as good as the rest of ’em. So tomorrow we’re going to eat like kings and queens.’ He paused. ‘What do you think, Ma? Stick it in the oven, thing’ll cook, won’t it? They eat it red and bloody in the Queen Mary, but—’

‘Billy Brogan,’ she said, ‘you’re a wonder. But what about that chicken I got sitting out there?’

‘Chicken, for the whole lot of us!? No, Ma, let’s treat ourselves. It’s but once a year. And we ain’t paupers, are we, Pa?’

Billy’s father nodded and, in silence, returned to his newspaper.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ Billy asked as he and the other Brogans scrabbled into the kitchen to see their ma stow the fresh meat in the larder.

‘Oh, don’t you bother with him,’ said Billy’s mother. ‘He brought us a turbot tonight. It’ll do nicely alongside all this. Good Lord, we could feed the whole parish.’

‘Let’s not,’ grinned Billy. ‘We Brogans got to look out for ourselves.’

But even while he played with his brothers and sisters, fashioning a den out of old chair legs and blankets, then telling Christmas stories and stoking them full of magic for the night to come, Billy had a nagging feeling in the back of his head as his father continued to sit in silence.

The Brogan children went to sleep early that night, though for long hours afterwards Billy could hear them clattering out of bed to gather at the windows and watch the snowy skies above. Billy stayed up later. His mother and father had hidden more gifts in the cranny at the back of the kitchen larder, and as she went off to dig them out, his father brought out a bottle of bourbon he kept hidden for celebrations like this. He poured a measure for himself, then one for Billy as well.

‘Drink up, son. There’s something I want to talk about.’

Billy tasted the bourbon, pretending not to wince as it burned the back of his throat. ‘Some of the Buckingham’s finest, eh, Pa?’

Billy’s father nursed his drink. ‘That’s what I want to speak about, son. Now, I know you. I know you better than anyone, excepting your ma, so don’t go getting up in arms about this. It needs saying. I need to get it off my chest.’ He paused, steeling himself with a breath. ‘I don’t know how you get your suckling pigs and venison. I don’t know how you get these bottles of bourbon and half-bottles of Moët et Chandon. I don’t know how you bring such big tips every time you come home. Now, don’t get me wrong, son, it isn’t that I’m not grateful. I got eight of you bairns, and your mother to think about too. What you do for this family, it’s appreciated more than you’ll ever know. But . . .’