I have finally managed to surprise Iris Armstrong.

The seat beside her is empty. I coax Dad out of his coat, steer him into the chair.

“Hello,” he says to Iris. “I’m Eugene Keogh. I’m a taxi driver. From Harold’s Cross.” He offers his hand, and Iris puts her book down and obliges, as she always does, with hers. Instead of shaking her hand, Dad holds it between both of his as though he is warming it.

The woman in the seat opposite Iris looks at me. “Do you want to sit here?” she says. “So you can talk to your friend.” Her smile is wide.

“Oh...thank you but, I don’t want to distur—” I begin. The woman stands up, hitches the strap of her handbag on her shoulder. “It’s no problem,” she says, smiling. “There’re lots of seats.”

When she leaves, Iris and I look at each other. I don’t know what to say, so I wait to see if Iris knows.

“I can’t believe you got on the boat,” Iris says.

“You didn’t leave me with any choice.” I can’t believe how calm my voice is. Iris stares at me as if she knows me from somewhere. Then, she shakes her head and points to the recently vacated seat opposite her. “You may as well sit down,” she says.

Silence circles the space between us, predatory as a lion.

Dad is the one to break it. “Where are we going?”

Iris glares at me, raises her eyebrows in a question, waits for me to answer it.

“We’re going wherever Iris is going,” I say.

“No, you’re not,” she stage-whispers at me, stretching across the table so I can see the golden-brown specks that circle the green of her irises.

“Yes, we are,” I say, injecting as much authority as I can muster into the words.

“You can’t,” Iris says.

“I can,” I tell her.

This could have gone on and on—Iris has alarming stamina—but then Dad interrupts. “Where is Iris going?” he says.

The question produces a silence that’s as potent as the loudest sound. We stare at each other. If I manage not to blink first, I will be able to persuade Iris home. That’s what I find myself thinking. My eyes water. Iris blinks and turns to Dad. She puts her hand on his. “I’m going...away,” she says.

“Away,” Dad says, nodding, as if it’s a location he’s familiar with and approves of.

Iris looks at me. She seems like a different person when her face is shadowed with worry. “I’m sorry, Terry, I never wanted you to find out like this.”

“You thought it would be better if I found out afterwards? In a letter?” Anger is not an emotion I’m familiar with. It burns.

“I know this is hard to understand,” she says.

“Yes it is.” I’m not going to make this easy for her.

“Am I going away too?” Dad says.

“No,” says Iris at the same time as I say, “Yes.” Iris hands him the sports section of her paper. He runs his finger along a headline, mouthing the words, like the girls used to do when they were learning to read. She looks at me again. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”