‘Under the sea,’ said Clay. ‘It was beautiful.’

He was sorry, but he could not help it.

‘Everything drawn out. Hair and things. And weeds. The knotted ones. And the lettucy kind. Some of the fish had beards, Mum, and barked, well, like dogs.’

His mum had put the fried bread on a plate to one side, where the little squares were already stiffening.

‘And shells, Mum,’ he said, ‘all bubbles and echoes as I went on down. It felt good. It felt soft. I didn’t have to try. But just floated. Down.’

He could see his mother’s behind, how it had begun to quiver, and he dreaded what might happen when he told. There was no avoiding it, though, and his mum went on prodding the bacon in the pan.

‘When I got to the bottom,’ he said, ‘and the steps ended, you should have seen how the sea stretched, over the sand and broken bottles. Everything sort of silvery. I don’t remember much else. Except that I found, Mum,’ he said.

‘What?’she asked.

He dreaded it.

‘A cloud, Mum,’ he said, ‘and it was dead.’

Then Mrs Skerritt turned round, it was dreadful, how she looked. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first, only Clay saw the little thing at the back. Raised. When suddenly it began to act like a clapper. She began to cry, she began to create.

‘Whatever are you gonna do to me?’ she cried, as she pummelled and kneaded the moist grey dough of her cheeks.

‘On top of everything else I never ever thought I’d have a freak!’

But Clay could only stand, and receive the blows her voice dealt. It was as though someone had taken a stick and drawn a circle round him. Him at the centre. There was no furniture any more.

The bacon was burning in the pan.

When Mrs Skerritt had thought it over, and used a little eau-de-Cologne, she took him up to McGillivray’s. It was late by then, on a Saturday morning too. All the way Clay listened to her breathing and sometimes the sound of her corset. McGillivray was already closing, but agreed to do Mrs Skerritt’s lad. McGillivray was kind.

‘We want it short short Mr McGillivray please,’ Mrs Skerritt said.

As the barber snipped Clay could hear his mum breathing, from where she sat, behind his back, under the coloured picture of the King.

Mr McGillivray did his usual nice job, and was preparing to design the little quiff when Mrs Skerritt choked.

‘That is not short Mr McGillivray not what I mean oh no oh dear but it is difficult to explain there is too much involved and I left school when I turned fourteen.’

McGillivray laughed and said: ‘Short is not shorn!’

‘I don’t care,’ she said.

Clay could only look at the glass, and suck his cheeks in.

‘Short is what I said and mean,’ Mrs Skerritt confirmed. ‘I was never one for not coming to the point.’