‘Hurry,’ she said. ‘Come on, hurry. They’re up to something tonight.’

Inside the door she shook the drops from her coat and hung it up. She held out her hand for Joe’s anorak.

‘Is that you back, Joe?’

‘No. It’s me back.’

There was silence for a moment and then a creaking of bedsprings and two thuds as his feet hit the floor.

‘Don’t disturb yourself.’ She only spoke the words in a half-whisper as she walked down the passage into the kitchen. They could hear his uncertain steps above them. She filled the kettle and put it on the stove.

‘Have you much homework?’

‘Not much. I’ll do it after tea.’

‘You might as well start it now and not be wasting time.’

Feet dumbered on the stairs. There were pauses for coughing between each step. She busied herself, wiping at things with a cloth, getting out the pan, her hands nervously flying here and there. Joe took some books out of his bag and sat down at the end of the table.

Meisse agus Pangur Bán,

Cecthar nathar fria shaindán,

Bíthamenma-sam fri seilgg

Mo menma céinin shaincheird.

He mouthed the words silently. He saw in his head, the old monk and the white cat, their heads nodding slightly as people’s heads did in concentration. The pan hissed with heating fat. The door opened.

‘Is my tea ready yet?’

‘Amn’t I only in this minute. I haven’t even taken off my wet shoes.’

‘The boy was late from school.’

He struggled across the room and lowered himself into the chair at the other end of the table.

‘What kept you, son?’

As she spoke, she peeled strips of streaky bacon off the top of the pile and laid them with great care on the pan.

‘I was kept back by the teacher.’

‘For insubordination? What? Was it that? Rebellion? What? Have we spawned a rebel? Taking after your father? what?’

‘Will you leave the boy alone. Can’t you see he’s doing his homework. The only thing you ever rebelled against was work …’

Always the witty word. Your mother always has the witty word.’

‘Meisse agus Pangur Bán,’ said Joe aloud, in desperation.

‘What’s that you’re saying?’

‘I’m learning my homework.’

‘What was it you said but?’

‘Meisse agus Pangur Bán,’ repeated Joe.

Frying bacon filled the room with its comfortable smell.

‘Go on,’ The man leant over the table towards him with a small show of enthusiasm. ‘The next line. I had the Irish once.’

‘Cechtar nathar fria shaindán.’

‘Yes.’

‘Bítha …’

‘Bítha …’

‘I forget. I’m only learning it.’

‘You’d want to put a bit more work into it.’

‘I’m doing it now.’

He ducked his head back towards the book again.

‘Aye.’ He leaned back in his chair again. His remembering face was softer than the anger of his everyday one. ‘I had a bit of the Irish once.’

‘Back when you ran the Movement, I suppose.’

She flipped the bacon over on the pan with a knife, and then pushed the slices to one side to make room for the sausages.