‘Are you not going to say anything, woman?’

‘Aye. I’ll say what I want to say, in my own time. No doubt, I’ll have plenty to say.’ The wind that blew across the Foyle in the winter was no colder than her voice.

‘What’s the job, Brendan?’ asked Joe, as nobody else seemed to be going to ask that question.

‘It’s not much of a job, but it’ll tide me over. Cash. It’ll be a bit of cash. It’s just driving stuff round for this fellow I met. He’s in the import business. So he is. Like import, export. McKeady is his name. Mr McKeady. It’s not much, just driving, but the money’s not bad. It’s a job for God’s sake, Mam, isn’t it?’

She picked the money up from the table and looked at it for a moment, then she put it into the pocket of her overall.

‘The money’ll come in handy, there’s no denying that.’

There was a long pause.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

She leant over the table and touched his hand gently. He nodded briefly at her and moved his hand just out of her reach.

‘My son will now assume the mantle of the breadwinner. Unlike his crippled father, he will win bread. What do you think of that, woman? My son will see us right. What do you say to that?’

She looked at him with contempt and said nothing.

‘If looks could kill …’ said the old man, raising a hand to protect himself.

‘When do you start?’ asked Joe.

‘Monday.’

‘That’s great.’

‘It’s driving here and there, Mam. I may be away the odd night.’

‘Yes,’ was all she said.

The conversation fizzled out.

Knives and forks rattled and scraped. The father stooped to pick up the paper that he had dropped on the floor when Brendan had come into the house.

‘Oooooh.’ The breath groaned out of him as he reached down.

‘Well, I must say I thought you’d all be pleased. Delirious. Sugar please.’

Joe passed the sugar bowl.

‘I am delirious,’ said the old man from behind his paper.

Joe felt a fit of laughter bursting up through his throat. He put a hand to his mouth to try and keep it from escaping.

‘I’d rather you went back over there. You know that. I’ve said it over and over.’

‘Ah Mam, for heaven’s sake.’

‘You never listen to me though.’

‘You never talk sense, that’s why.’

‘I talk more sense than him.’ She nodded towards the newspaper. It rattled indignantly.

‘What’s that? Sense is it? Isn’t this the boy’s own home? Hasn’t he every right to live here if he wants to? If he so desires? And work. Ha. And see to things? And what do you do but complain when he puts five pounds into your hand? A nice thing that. My mother, God rest her, was no begrudger … no … I mind well the day I first put …’

‘Would you stop. Just stop, that’s all I ask. Take your books on up to your room, Joe, and do your homework.’