Rosa. She hadn’t been Mamma for a long time. It had been two years since they had last stared at each other. The impasse was mutual, something that had grown from the time of Joe’s disappearance, and stiffened until it became unbearable to be in a room with her because the same things would always be said. Sometimes there’d be a man there, a new one she was seeing, perched on Joe’s old chair. She’d be wearing a blouse that showed a lot of cleavage, dismissing the guy’s awkward excuses about leaving them to it, though he usually scarpered anyway. Matty would sit on the sofa with a cup of tea and talk about where the last few jobs had been, and Rosa would nod. She was never really listening, looking at Matty from head to toe and gathering her own words together, words that would eventually pour out, one strained sentence loosening and becoming many. The same questions. Why do you not get a proper job? Why do you not act as you should? What have you done to your hair? When will you behave like a normal person? You will not get a proper job unless you act properly. You know what people think of you? Of me? It always ended the same way, the cup of tea left half-drunk, Rosa still shouting as Matty shut the front door, vowing that it would be the last time.

The worst thing had been calling Nonna, and trying to tell her in shit Italian. Mamma è morto, Nonna. Morta. The quiet howls emanating from the phone, as if listening to a dog on a far hill.

***

The rest of the Slim-Fast in the van, sat back under the duvet. The wetsuit was draped over the rear doors, though this mist wasn’t going to help it dry in a hurry. Shifty’s windows fogged further as the kettle heated up.

Matty pulled the notepad over and wrote the details down on a fresh page. Lough. Distance. Temperatures. After a while, you instinctively knew the feel of the water. These were the important things, discussed genially with fellow swimmers.

Outside, a crow landed, hopping into a puddle, its look not far off Matty’s own – black back, grey hood. It lifted its beak and made a violent, cracking cry, right at the window.

***

The funeral was in her church in Wood Green, an odd, modern building with a cross fifteen metres high on a thin concrete post outside. No gothic frills. Mrs Jackson from the old suit shop was there, and a smattering of neighbours. Nonno had fractured his hip and couldn’t move, so they didn’t come. Matty stood at the front, hands clasped, the words all coming back easily, like a pop song you hadn’t sung since you were a kid. Like a rap.