Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, if Daddy George was watching us, he’d let me go over to the cows and say hello to them. I liked that. The way they’d all crowd together when they saw me coming. The way they’d sniff at my hand and lick my fingers, their tongues rough like wet sandpaper. The way their heads felt all hard and warm under their coats.

Daddy George was better than the other two, I suppose. He never struck me nor the Mummies. Not like Daddy Ivan, he’d give you a hiding for no reason at all. And Daddy Tam, he was the worst when he was thran. Most cribb’d auld hoor you ever met. But Daddy George wasn’t as bad.

Anyway, some Sundays, after the Daddies came back from church and they’d let us upstairs, we’d be allowed out into the yard. Mummy Joy and Mummy Noreen would just walk in circles around it, sometimes not even talking much to each other. They could talk all they wanted downstairs in the house, but outside, they just walked and walked. And I just ran and leapt about the place. Sometimes I chased the chickens. I had to be quiet, though. There was no shouting and getting on, oh, no, Daddy Ivan would never tolerate that.

I used to wonder what was outside the yard. I could see the hills and the fields and the trees and the sky, but that was all. I knew there was roads and towns and cars and other people, even if I’d never seen them. Mummy Joy telt me about them. Her and Mummy Noreen weren’t born in the house, not like me, they hadn’t always lived there. Mummy Joy was from Armagh, and Mummy Noreen was from Belfast. I’ve still never been to them places. I’ve never been anywhere. No call to, I suppose.

I’m not sure, but I think Mummy Joy was my real mummy. Both of them were awful good to me, but Mummy Joy was the one who coddled me the most. She was the one who looked after me if one of the Daddies gave me a hiding. Aye, I think she was my real mummy.