By a young sailor lad.’

Words and thoughts jumbled in his head, but nothing would come out the way he wanted. Neat words on the page. Coherence. Neat thought. Everything’s spoilt, a voice kept saying. The whole day, spoilt. Life, perhaps, spoilt. Never again will the words come out neatly. Never again will I see pictures in my mind. Tears rose to the back of his eyes. My bloody brother is a bloody Provo. He wrote the words in deep black writing across the page. Spoiling the page. She didn’t want his bloody rubbishy poem anyway. He tore the paper from the pad and began folding it into eight little concertina folds, over and back, over and back. He ran his nail along each fold, inflicting private injury. He was suddenly aware of silence. Only a slight ticking from the gas fire sounded in the room.

‘That was lovely. Really lovely. Thank you, Brendan.’

‘You really think so.’

‘You have a gorgeous voice. I never thought for a minute you’d be able to sing as well as that. Doesn’t he sing beautifully, Joe?’

Joe leaned towards the fire, arm outstretched, and lit the end of the paper. He held it out over the grate, watching the paper curl under as it burned, glowing, then turning black and floating down to the floor like feathers.

‘Yes.’

‘Who did you get your voice from? Your mother or your father?’

‘My father was a great singer before …’

‘Before what?’

‘Ah, well … when he was younger. He’s an old man now. His voice is old. Shook. You know.’

‘Are you trying to set the house on fire, Joe?’

He shook his head.

‘Have you my poem written out for me?’

‘I couldn’t remember it.’

‘Oh, Joe …’ Her voice was full of reproach for the lie he was telling.

‘Do you write poetry, Joe?’

Brendan got up as he spoke and went over to Kathleen. He lit a match and held it down to her.

‘You’ll have that cigarette ruined if you don’t smoke it, twisting and twiddling at it like that.’

‘Thanks.’ She leaned forward and the tiny flame of the match made a golden flicker across her face for a moment.

‘He wrote me a poem anyway. A very nice one too. I’m sure you’ll remember it if you try. Please try.’

She leant towards him and touched his knee with the tip of her finger.

‘Yes, I will. I’ll write it out at home.’

‘Good boy. I loved my day. Rain and all. Didn’t you love it, Joe?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you ever up there, Brendan?’

‘No.’

‘You must go sometime. It’s like being on top of the world. You could fly.’

‘I’ve never had the urge. I’ve looked at it, but … I like streets.’

‘A city boy. All the same, when the weather gets better you should go. Just to have a look.’

‘Did you know the song I sang?’

‘My father used to sing it. He didn’t have a voice like you though. He used to crack on the high notes.’