“Ah no, you won’t be able to get any sleep.”

“I’m not sleeping. I’m just resting.”

“Okay then, if you’re sure. I won’t be long. I’ll get some food.”

“No, don’t. I’m taking you and Mr. Keogh out for dinner tonight. I thought we’d go to a tapas restaurant.”

“That sounds great.” It’s not exactly a Sign. And I’m sure Iris doesn’t remember, but the first time I tasted tapas was with her.

Iris lifts her head, props it on her hand. “Do you remember those tapas we had? On Suffolk Street.”

I sit on the edge of her bed. “I do.”

“You told me that night how Wilbur the pig turned you into a vegetarian on your eighth birthday, remember?”

“I remember,” I say, smiling.

Mam collected me from school that day, the two of us sitting on the top deck of the bus, playing I Spy, getting off in town, me gripping her hand as we walked across O’Connell Street towards Eason’s bookshop. I scanned the footpath for a policeman. Mam always said if I got lost, I should find a policeman, so I used to keep an eye out for them, just in case. I read the whole book that day. Charlotte’s Web. Which was how I discovered that food like rashers and sausages and ham and pork all came from pigs like Wilbur. I locked myself in the bathroom and thought about all the rashers and sausages and ham and pork I had eaten. Mam just smiled when I told her that I wouldn’t be eating meat anymore. Dad said, “You’ll eat what your mother puts in front of you and be bloody grateful for it.”

When Iris pressed me as to why I was a vegetarian in the tapas restaurant that night, I ended up telling her my Charlotte’s Web story.

“That’s pretty impressive for an eight-year-old,” she said. I remember the way she looked at me when she said that. An admiring sort of look, which I felt was unwarranted since I had no other tales to tell of heroic childhood deeds. I had mostly been a timid, careful child. But that night in the restaurant, when Iris looked at me like that, I felt perhaps there was more to it. More to me. It was...well, it was lovely.

Iris turns onto her side. Her eyes are closed. I move towards the bedroom door. “Terry?” Iris’s voice is heavy with drowsiness.

“Yes? I’m here.”

“They were really good tapas, weren’t they?”

“Yes,” I say. “Now get some rest.”

I walk out of the bedroom, through the hall towards the sitting room. I find I am humming the Hallelujah chorus, which is odd as I am not a hummer, as a rule. I remember Iris singing it at the top of her voice on our way to the taxi rank when we left the tapas restaurant that night. And when I joined in—it wasn’t a conscious decision, it just happened—Iris threw her arm around my shoulder and sang even louder. And while it’s fair to say that I am not a natural singer and certainly not in public, nor am I comfortable with such familiarity, I raised my voice too and reached my arm around Iris’s waist.