‘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.

‘Hi, kiddo.’

‘You’re back.’

‘I’m back.’

‘Did you have a good evening, son?’ She raised her eyes from the sock. Her hands were still for a moment.

‘Aye.’ His voice was non-committal.

‘Where were you?’ Brendan folded up the paper as he spoke.

For one dreadful moment Joe couldn’t remember where he had told his mother he had been going. His face must have shown his panic, because Brendan got up from the table and tapped him on the head with the folded newspaper.

‘I was over at Logues.’ He spoke the words quickly and quietly in case his mother thought to cross-examine him about his evening. What did you have for your tea? and what had Mrs Logue to say for herself and this and that? But she was busy pulling at a piece of grey wool with her teeth, the sock in one hand, the needle in the other.

‘I’m away out,’ said Brendan to all and sundry.

His father dropped the paper on the floor.

‘I’ll be with you.’

‘Not tonight, Dad. I have a fella to see.’

The old man pushed himself up on to his feet.

‘I’ll not be in your way. Your friends are my friends. I can keep a deaf ear if I have to. We can have a mouthful of beer.’

‘No, Dad … not tonight … It’s work I have …’

‘I’ll wait up in the bar till you’ve finished your work.’

‘Sorry.’

Without waiting for any more discussion, Brendan turned and left the room. The three of them waited in silence until the hall door had closed. Mam moved first. She put the sock on its mushroom down on the table.

‘I’ll make a cup of tea.’

She got up and went out to the scullery.

The old man sat down slowly in his chair.

‘He’s never done that to me before.’

Joe stared at the squares on the oilcloth. Some crumbs still remained from their tea.

‘He never …’