‘I don’t, much. I can’t afford to. Why?’ Claud rejoined Mavis at the foot of the ladder.

‘She’s afraid of people falling off the ladder pissed.’

‘I’m pretty good on ladders, drunk or sober,’ said Claud primly.

‘It’s the Irish imagination which foresees possible trouble.’

‘I thought you were a Plymouth family,’ said Claud, watching the back of Mavis’ head as she descended the stairs ahead of him.

‘So what? There are Kennedys born all over. In the United States, for instance. You’ve been listening to Laura.’ Mavis, not over-fond of Laura, sounded quite huffy.

‘I suppose everyone tells you you have beautiful hair?’ Claud attempted to deflect her huff.

‘They certainly do.’ Mavis was unenthusiastic. Then, remembering her mother’s need for the rent, she said, ‘Come on and meet my mum. Mum,’ she shouted, ‘where are you?’

‘In here,’ Ann Kennedy answered from the kitchen.

‘This is Claud, a friend of Laura’s, he’d like to rent the loft, Mum.’

‘Rent the loft?’ said Ann Kennedy, affecting surprise. ‘A friend of Laura’s? Well!’ Impossible to tell from her tone whether Mrs Kennedy thought well or ill of Laura.

‘I’m defrosting the fridge; it’s a job which bores me rigid.’ She waved towards an open refrigerator. ‘Takes forever.’

‘Soften it up with the hairdrier,’ suggested Mavis.

‘Would that be safe?’ Mrs Kennedy was interested. ‘Wouldn’t I get electrocuted?’

‘It’s a lovely loft.’ Claud hastened to stem the diversion. Suddenly he wanted the loft badly; he could see his typewriter on the table, hear his fingers tap the keys. ‘I am a writer, Mrs Kennedy.’

‘A writer,’ said Ann Kennedy in flat tone. ‘Oh.’ She bent to peer into the fridge, ‘It is beginning to drip, perhaps the drier—this fridge is as old as Methuselah.’

‘I am very quiet,’ said Claud in recommendation.

‘Quiet,’ said Ann Kennedy. ‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ said Claud.

‘There’s the ladder.’

‘I’m pretty nimble.’

‘I don’t doubt.’

‘I scarcely drink.’

‘Scarcely.’

‘I could pay the rent in advance, if it’s not too large, that is.’

‘M-m-m.’ She peered into the refrigerator.

‘Cash,’ said Claud.

‘Cash,’ said Mrs Kennedy. ‘Did you tell him the rent, Maeve?’

‘Mavis,’ said Mavis. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘If you must keep changing your name,’ said Ann Kennedy in accents of extreme irritability, ‘why can’t you choose one we can all stick to? A decent biblical name like Ruth or Rebecca or Miriam?’ Her voice rose as ice suddenly began to clatter noisily onto the ice tray. ‘Or Mary? What’s wrong with the virgin Mary?’

‘It’s common.’

‘There’s only one virgin Mary,’ snapped Ann Kennedy, ‘why not—’

‘Because I can’t stand the Jews forever killing the Arabs and vice versa, they are as bad as the Northern Irish.’ Mavis’ voice rose to meet her parent’s.

‘It would be simpler with all this chopping and changing to know you by a number. Number One would suit you fine,’ Ann Kennedy snapped.

Claud registered that this was a well-established conflict. ‘Could we get back to the rent?’ His masculine calm rather pleased him.