It was the way it had always been before Brendan had come home.

‘Is that you, Joe?’

The voice crackled down the stair full of exhausted anger.

‘It’s me. I’ll be up to you in a minute.’

He rattled out the ashes and filled the stove. He put on the kettle and then carried the bucket of ashes out to the yard. It was dark and bitterly cold. The wind drove needles of rain along the valley between the houses. Not even the hens next door made a sound.

‘Chook,’ said Joe, hopefully. There was no reaction from the hens. His father was thumping on the floor with his stick.

‘I’ll be up when I’ve made the tea.’

The thumping continued until he arrived up in the room with the steaming cup in his hand.

‘Did you let it draw?’

‘Yes.’

‘It doesn’t look as if you let it draw. No one could drink that muck.’

He pushed the cup away, slopping tea over Joe’s fingers. Joe put the cup down on the table and wiped his fingers on his trousers.

‘It’s muck if you don’t let it draw. Everyone knows that.’

‘You were banging …’

‘Of course, it’s my fault. I might have known.’

‘Ah, Dadda …’

‘Where’s your brother?’

‘He’s away. You know that. He’s on a job now. A driving job.’

‘I’ve been alone all day. There’s been no one to see to me at all.’

‘Well …’

‘Where’s Brendan?’

‘I told you. He’s away on a job.’

‘I’ve been bad. He’s the only one sees to me at all. He takes me out to meet his friends. They listen to me. Yes. They talk. They tell me things. Is he doing a job for the Movement?’

‘He’s got a job driving for someone. That’s all I know. It’s a business of some sort.’

‘A business … ha ha. That’s a good one. You could call it a business all right.’

‘I only know what he told me.’

‘He tells me, so he does. My own son. I was head of a flying column once. Did you know that?’

‘You told me.’

‘You want to go, don’t you? Get away off to your books or the TV ? I see it in your face. Get on away then. I’ll just lie here on my own till Brendan gets back.’

‘He’ll be away a few days.’

‘She’s even lifted the shoes on me. I’ve looked everywhere for them. The bloody bitch.’

‘Sure, you don’t need your shoes. Your slippers are here.’ Joe picked them up from under the bed and handed them to his father, who swept them away with his hand as he had swept away the cup of tea.

‘It’s my shoes I need, I tell you. Have a look below for me. I haven’t looked below. It’d be like her to take them to work with her, to spite me she’d do a thing like that.’

‘Dad …’

‘Shoes, I tell you.’

Joe went down the stairs and looked around the kitchen for his father’s shoes. He found them quite quickly, tucked tidily into the space between the dresser and the wall, covered with a couple of copies of the Journal. He considered the situation and decided it would be preferable in the long run to let his father have his shoes now, quickly, so that he could be off and out with a bit of luck before Mam came in. He ran up the stairs and threw the shoes on to his father’s bed.