It was a quiet night. It was always hard to know why some nights there seemed to be no problems. Even the wind creeping round the corners was relaxed, while other nights, even if there was no trouble, were full of fear and waiting shadows.

As Joe woke in the morning Brendan turned over in the big bed and coughed. Then Joe saw the darkness of his arm stretch up against the grey window. Below, Mam rattled out the stove. An army patrol drove past the top of the street. As Joe’s feet touched the cold lino a shiver went through him.

‘What’s the time?’ whispered Brendan.

‘About half seven.’

‘Oh God.’

He pulled his arm back inside the bed clothes and turned over.

‘Give me a shout before you go, there’s a good boy.’

‘What for?’

‘Ssssh,’ said his brother and drifted back into sleep again.

‘Will you eat an egg?’

‘An egg?’ His voice must have sounded surprised.

‘Aye, an egg.’

‘I’d eat an egg all right.’

She had the water boiling already and she slowly lowered a brown egg into it on a spoon. The water became calm for a moment and then foamed up almost to the top of the saucepan.

‘Hard,’ he said, watching her butter toast and cut the slices into little fingers. He was really getting the full treatment. ‘I like them hard.’

‘I know. Haven’t I been feeding you eggs for years?’

Soft eggs.

The lid on the kettle rattled and she turned away to make the tea. He put a piece of the warm dribbling toast into his mouth.

‘Friday today,’ his mother said, almost gaily.

And he hadn’t done his homework, let alone his extra homework. Eejit. Eejit.

‘All day.’ She put the pot on the table. ‘Saturday tomorrow. It’ll be nice to have a bit of a rest.’

‘Are you ill?’

She smiled.

‘No. I just get tired from time to time.’

‘I suppose you would.’

‘You can take it from me I do.’

She looked down at the egg, spoon in hand.

‘It’s cracked, I’m afraid.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’

She took it out and held it for a moment over the saucepan and then popped it into Joe’s egg-cup. He watched the shell drying. A small ridge of white bubbled out along the crack. He hit the top with his spoon. His mother sighed. He looked up at her.

‘Some people take holidays,’ he suggested.

‘Some people do indeed.’ Her voice was bitter as the wind could be. He pushed a piece of toast into his egg, which he saw with resignation wasn’t as hard as it might have been. She took her cup of tea out of the kitchen and he could hear her in the front room rattling her sweeping brush against the legs of the chairs.

My mother is an obscure woman.

She won’t speak the thoughts that are in her mind. She doesn’t mean to be unkind. But sometimes she is.

She heard him starting to climb the stairs to wake Brendan.