‘Is it good?’

‘What?’

‘Brendan being home? He’s been away a long time, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes. Ages. A couples of years. I was only a kid.’

She smiled. He felt himself blush.

‘Are you pleased he’s back?’

‘I don’t honestly know. I’ve hardly seen him. It’ll take … like a while … you know …’

He paused.

‘… to … to …’

‘Come to terms.’

She leant forward and stubbed out the cigarette butt in the grate. Smoke squirmed out from under her fingers and then died. He wondered for a moment if she was a Protestant.

‘Used you to like him?’

‘I don’t remember. That’s all I remember, then he went away.’

She got up and wandered aimlessly round the room, picking things up and putting them down again. He supposed she was looking for her cigarettes.

‘Mam is upset.’ He threw the words after her wandering figure.

‘She’s afraid he’ll get into trouble. Mixed up … you know … She worries a lot about that sort of thing. Like me being home from school quickly. I told you …’

‘Yes,’ she said.

She found them in the pocket of her coat, and sighed with relief. She came back and sat down again.

‘She has all the worrying to do.’

‘Some people quite like that, you know, Joe. They need to be worrying away all the time.’

He looked down at his cocoa, which was forming a crinkled skin across the top. ‘I don’t think she likes it. You know the way some people have happy faces?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, she hasn’t. Not even when she’s watching TV. I watch her a lot. I’ve skin on my cocoa.’

‘It won’t kill you.’

‘I don’t like it. It makes me feel sick.’

‘There’s a spoon over there.’ She nodded towards the sink. ‘Scoop it off.’

He got up and carried his mug across the room. Outside, the almost dark sky was streaked with gold. There was a red plastic spoon on the draining board. He performed the delicate operation, dropping the skin quickly into the basin. It reminded him of a burst balloon, something else that he hated.

‘She works four days a week in the Strand Café.’

‘What does she do there?’

He thought for a moment.

‘She performs menial tasks.’

He sat down again and sipped tentatively at his drink, hoping against hope that he hadn’t left any shreds of skin behind that might touch his lips.

‘That can’t be very nice for her.’

‘It’s not. But someone has to keep the home together.’ He smiled at her. ‘That’s what she says.’

‘And your father? What does he do?’

‘He’s not well at all.’

‘Oh.’

She put her mug on the floor and started on the cigarette-lighting business.

‘My mother says he’s a retired hero.’ He looked at her. Her face was a serious, listening face.

‘That’s a sort of joke really.’

The light from the match patterned her face for a moment with orange and black. ‘Wounded in the Civil War. He has a bad leg … and his back … well … He ought to have a pension. He says the Free State government is shirking its legitimate responsibilities. He says … he says … anyway he’s not at all well.’