Kill flying time,

Move slower to the grave.

Prolong … he was stuck. Prolong this moment. This warmth, these words that we throw between each other. He felt the stinging rush of tears up behind his eyes and put his head back to make things difficult for them. He hummed the song with her.

‘There you are,’ she said. ‘You don’t sing badly at all.’

He hit the bridge of his nose sharply with the hard edge of his fingers and brought the tears jumping out on to his cheeks.

‘Ow’, he said, without meaning to.

‘What did you do that for?’

‘I just did it.’

He mopped up his face with his sleeve and grinned at her.

‘You are a funny fellow.’

‘Funny?’

‘Clown.’

‘I saw a circus once. There used to be circuses here, before … The clowns were great. Mad. Falling about. Blowing themselves up and things. I remember …’

‘What?’

‘Oh, the noise. Bangs and that. And the smell.’

‘Elephant piss and sawdust.’

He started to laugh.

‘Something like that.’

‘Here.’ She handed him a plate piled high with chicken and brown crunchy chips and the burnt onions.

The plate was hot and the heat wore its way through his trousers and was uncomfortable on his legs for a few minutes and then became the most pleasant warmth in the world and then became a memory.

‘I must go. It’s getting on for eight.’

The floor between them was littered with plates and mugs. He picked his way carefully through the debris.

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘There’s no need. Honestly.’

‘I’d feel better if I did.’

‘I don’t want you to.’

‘Too bad.’

They put their coats on in silence and went down the stairs in silence and out of the door. Rain had settled in for the evening, a fine drenching rain, that seemed to spread itself under your clothes.

‘There’ll be no trouble tonight,’ he said to her on the doorstep.

‘Joe, I’m walking to the top of your road with you and that’s that.’ It was the schoolteacher voice again.

There wasn’t a soul in the streets. The houses seemed to huddle even closer together in an effort to keep dry.

‘You’re all right here. Good night, Joe.’

‘Good night … and thanks a lot.’

‘See you soon. Oy … Joe …’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t say a word about what I told you.’

‘About?’

‘You know what about. Fred and all that. Silent, O Moyle. Right?’

‘Right. Good night.’

‘Good night.’

You could go on saying good night for ever, he thought, as he ran down the hill.

Brendan was back when he got in. The table had been cleared of the tea things and the two men sat, one on each side of the table, their heads stuck into the newspapers. Mam was darning his grey socks. She held the sock close up to her eyes. It was stretched over a wooden mushroom that had belonged to her mother before her. The needle dipped in and out of the wool, making its neat pattern. Her fingers looked old, the skin creased like unironed clothes. Joe joined them at the table.