‘Even so,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Be careful.’ He framed his arm around Joe’s back and led him towards the kitchen door. ‘But it’s a good place to spot them, so come anytime,’ he said, nodding towards the field. ‘No need to ask permission.’

The boxing was taking off and another five boys had joined, which made thirteen in all. Joe’s skills came back, nimble feet, on your toes, hammering the punching bag. He ran through the matches of his youth, those he’d fought and those he’d watched.

Pierre conjured three more pairs of boxing gloves and six gumshields, tapped his nose, no questions asked. It wouldn’t be long before Joe could spar against one or two of the bigger boys. Some of the lads now were learning how to throw a punch and he didn’t want broken teeth on his conscience, let alone a broken jaw. They were learning fast, and word spread, kept Joe busy all through the spring and then the long summer evenings. Now the wirelesses had been taken by the Germans, there was little else to do. Joe was happy to teach the boys every night, they were that keen. The days stretched into the autumn, September, October, November.

It was Pierre who suggested the boxing match. He had a pal, he said, who could set it up. Joe remembered the Troubles in the twenties. Brother against brother. Bitterness as sharp as a sword. Would they have battled so hard if they had played a bit more? Fought it out on the hurling pitch, then gone for a jar in the pub? What harm would a boxing match do? Ireland was not at war, so he wouldn’t be a traitor. Nor a collaborator. A friendly match. There was good and bad on either side, after all. The more Joe thought about it, the better the idea sounded. This could smooth over hostilities, be a bridge to the enemy. Like the Christmas truce.

Christmas. Let it happen at Christmas. Peace on earth to all men. He’d have time to train.

The match was scheduled for Wednesday 9 December 1942 in the assembly hall of the Maison St Louis Observatory. It was advertised on the front page of the Deutsche Inselzeitung and at the bottom of the classified ads on the back page in the Evening Post.

Joe was to fight Wilhelm Weber, the bantamweight champion of Silesia, 1937, and the Wehrmacht, 1939. Weber was younger than Joe. Joe couldn’t think why he had agreed to do this. It was over ten years since he’d fought and though he was fit, and practised every day in the club, he wasn’t at his prime, not against a younger man. He’d had no one to spar against, not at his level, not even one of the bigger boys. Smashing a punching bag was no substitute for ring practice.