‘I would like to give you something, so I would. That’s made a new man of me. Something in return.’

‘What about a cigarette, perhaps?’

‘I’ve noticed you smoke too much.’

‘That’s what Joe says too.’

He pulled a packet out of his pocket and threw them over to her.

‘Thanks.’

‘But that’s not what I meant. I thought I’d give you something … well … like a kiss, or a song, or a promise.’

Joe, who had the last bite of sausage in his mouth, almost choked with anger. He looked sideways at Kathleen’s face. He might have known it, she was laughing. So was Brendan, in a sheepish sort of way. Joe picked up the toasting fork and pulled it in and out distractedly. It made a slight squeaking, complaining sound.

‘Are you any good at singing?’

Maybe, thought Joe, she hadn’t heard the first outrageous suggestion.

‘Not bad. Joe’ll tell you.’

‘Well, Joe? How’s his singing?’

‘Not bad,’ said Joe almost inaudibly.

‘A song then. That would be nice.’

She settled herself on the floor, in a serious listening position. The light from the fire glittered in her drying hair. She let the unlit cigarette droop between the fingers of her right hand. She gave a quick warm smile at Brendan.

‘Fire ahead.’

‘What would you like?’

‘I’m not choosing. You have to do that. That’s part of the whole thing.’

Brendan chewed thoughtfully at his thumbnail.

‘I’d like to give you a present too,’ said Joe.

‘But you have. You gave me that poem. It’s been a lovely day for presents. If you put a hand into that drawer beside you, you’ll find a pen and some paper, then you could write it down for me.’

‘A poem?’ Brendan spoke without removing his thumb. He looked like a small, surprised child.

‘A poem,’ said Kathleen gravely. ‘You get on with choosing your song and leave Joe and his poem alone.’

Joe balanced the writing pad on his knee and began to write. He would make a pattern on the page with the words, he thought.

Brendan sat up straight in his chair and took his thumb out of his mouth.

‘Are you ready?’

‘On tenterhooks.’

He shut his eyes and began to sing.

‘If I were a blackbird

I’d whistle and sing,

And I’d follow the ship

That my true love was in,

And on the top rigging

I’d there build my nest,

And I’d pillow my head

On his snowy white breast.’

After the first couple of nervous lines he sang nicely. Kathleen listened with care. The clothes steamed. Joe pressed black furrows of writing on to the page. He tried to block out the words of the song with the words of the poem. Rhythms and rhymes became confused in his head. He got the words down on the paper, black and fierce-looking and tried to think of another verse.

‘I am a young maiden,

My story is sad.

For once I was loved