He still doesn’t look up, so I sit at his feet. The skirt’s so tight I have to twist my legs beneath me, like a posh woman riding a horse side saddle in an old film.

I rest my head against his knee.

‘Shall we listen to the new Prince?’ I twist round to face him. He catches my wrist and squeezes, hard.

‘Will you wear it every time you come?’ His voice is low. He’s not looking at my face, even now.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘if you want.’

He lets go. I rub my wrist, but he takes no notice.

After I while I say, ‘Perhaps you should think about what you could do for me.’

He keeps staring right over my head.

four

August, 1985

I come home from Shane’s shed and Dad’s on the front porch, waiting for me. He’s wearing Mum’s pinny.

‘I’m making Irish stew.’

‘Why aren’t you at work?’

‘I told you. I’m making Irish stew.’

‘Where’s Mum?’

‘I used to make it for your mother. Before we were married.’

There’s been arguments for the last week, but there always are. Usually it goes on for a few nights, then there’s a reunion. ‘No one can resist a grin that wins,’ Dad will say, patting Mum on the bum. ‘Your mum tried to resist my winning grin, Joanna. But no one can resist a grin that wins.’

But this time there’s been no winning grin.

I’ve never known Dad to cook anything. When he’s in the kitchen he’s either eating or reading the paper. Or washing up, tea towel thrown over one shoulder, whistling an Elvis number. And that’s only on Sundays.

But now here he is with Mum’s pinny around his waist, rustling through a pile of Tesco’s bags.

‘Where’s Mum?’

‘Your mother didn’t have any food in the house. Real food, I mean. Not that frozen stuff. So I had to go out.’

I reach into one of the plastic bags. My fingers meet something that feels like blancmange. I let out a yelp.

Dad stretches across me, drags the meat out of the bag, whacks it on the table. ‘Look at that. Real shoulder of lamb. Bone in.’ The dark red flesh is squashed against the cellophane. Blood gathers in the dimples of the Styrofoam tray beneath. ‘That’s where the flavour is, Joanna.’

He rips the cellophane from the meat and turns the flesh under the tap. The water runs pink.

‘You can scrape the spuds,’ says Dad. He holds the blade of Mum’s biggest knife up to his nose, flips it from side to side. ‘You need it sharp.’ He speaks slowly, like he’s dragging out each word. ‘The blunt ones are the most dangerous.’

‘When’s Mum coming back?’

He has no answer. Instead, he positions himself at the counter, legs apart, and cuts into an onion. Beneath the pinny, he’s wearing a pair of very short yellow shorts. The meat of his thighs flattens out against the cupboard doors. Every now and then he scrunches up his eyes and sniffs. ‘Big slices for Irish stew,’ he says, scooping up the dry layers of skin and aiming for the bin.