She must have been up some time before him, as the buckets were all ready humming on the stove. The long handle of the wooden spoon tapped gently against the side of one of them, keeping time with the vibration of the water as it bubbled.

‘I’ve made you a drop of porridge. I thought it would stand to you.’

‘Thanks.’

He sat down and felt guilty again about his half-lie, as he watched her spoon the porridge out into his bowl.

‘There,’ she said, as she put the bowl in front of him. ‘That’ll make your hair curl.’

It was one of her favourite sayings. He had tried once to make a poem out of it, but it had come to nothing.

‘It’s a good day for you anyway.’

He poured milk on to his porridge and watched it burrow its way underneath and then work its way up to the surface again.

‘Mam …’

It was not the time for truth, she was peering into one of the buckets, poking with irritation at whatever it was that bubbled inside.

‘Mmmm’ She was indifferent to anything he might want to say.

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘Don’t go and get your clothes ruined, mucking about.’

The sugar that lay on the porridge was gritty and he crunched it off the spoon with pleasure.

‘Did you hear me, son?’

‘Aye.’

‘Well, mind me.’

‘Aye. I will.’

Gold is the sun

On a winter’s morning.

Cold is the air.

Still is the river

On a winter’s morning.

The hill beyond is black

Against the gold sun.

Hurry, hurry. The day waking, waving golden flags across the sky. Down the dry streets, still smoke-smelling. Past the eyeless houses, people resting still behind the cardboard windows. Soldiers watchful at street corners. Eyes in the backs of their heads. Seagulls mew, dip and soar, watchful like the waiting soldiers, but free.

She was standing by the bus waiting for him. The cigarette stuck in one corner of her mouth was unlit, her hands were clenched, warming in her pockets, a large red shopping bag hung from her shoulder. She was staring with a slight frown through the wire fence that protected the gardening shop, at some brightly painted gnomes. She looked as if she thought he wouldn’t turn up.

‘Hello,’ he said, alarmed suddenly by the thought of the day stretching ahead. What will we say to each other, he wondered with panic.

She turned and smiled.

‘Hi, there.’ She spoke with a phoney American accent that made him smile. ‘Would you like a gnome for your birthday?’ She took the cigarette out of her mouth and looked at it for a moment.

‘What would I do with a gnome?’

‘Look, I haven’t a match. I don’t suppose you have a match?’

He shook his head. ‘What a stupid question for me to ask anyway. Of course you wouldn’t have a match. I’ll just dash round the corner and get some. I’m desperate for a smoke. Don’t let the driver go without me. Here.’ She shoved a ticket into his hand.