‘A girl.’ His mother spoke with alarm. ‘Is that true?’

‘Wouldn’t I know if he had a girl? Haven’t I the boy’s confidence?’ His head had come up and he watched Joe’s face with care.

‘It was only a suggestion,’ muttered Joe.

‘Have you seen him with a girl?’ asked his mother.

‘How could he see him with a girl when he hasn’t a girl?’

‘Will you shut your mouth for a minute. Joe?’

‘No, I haven’t.’ God forgive me, I am becoming a truly hardened liar.

‘What did I say?’ The father was triumphant. ‘No word of a girl has ever passed his lips.’

The kettle sighed for a moment and then was silent again.

‘No word. And all the talk out of him.’

‘I wonder who she is.’

‘Mam, I didn’t really mean it. I only said it …’

‘Sure, why wouldn’t he have a girl. It’s a perfectly natural thing for a young man his age.’

‘I would have advised agin it.’

‘You would?’ Her voice was ironic.

‘Aye. I would. No point in getting mixed up with girls when you’re in the Movement. I know to my bitterness.’

She didn’t answer. She put the teapot down on the stove and poured some hot water into it. She carried the pot in her cupped hands out to the scullery.

‘You and your Movement.’

She disappeared into the darkness. The water from the pot splashed into the sink.

‘I would have advised agin it. And let me tell you, the boy would have listened to me. His father.’

He would go and visit her. Stay. And Frederick. Fred. He might stay for ages. He could grow up there. He could learn to watch the world as she did. Fred would take off his uniform when he came home and you could forget what he was. He would be a man, like any other man. They would be careful of each other, and gentle, and laugh. He saw the ring, that she touched from time to time, on her finger. Remembered the way she touched it. I would like to be loved, he thought. Safely loved. To write words down on a page, pattern them not even write them down, hear the song of them in your head, hear nothing else for those few minutes, that was safe too. He might stay for ever. He might buy a typewriter. Those neat black letters looked so good. Some day. Maybe they would live in Germany. He tried to remember what he knew about Germany. Pine trees and deep snow in the winter, keeping the world silent. She would have children of her own. She wouldn’t want him hanging around. He could help, push them in their pram. Teach them games like conkers and hopscotch and making shadows on the wall with your hands. Our Father who art in heaven, please … Hallowed … hallow was a lovely word … Hallowed be Thy …’

‘Are you deaf?’

‘What?’

His tea was on the table in front of him and his mother was sitting once more in her chair with the sock in her hand. She was staring at him.