And then you had to walk along the powerhouse wall, there was a lovely sandy road, and everyone from the city went out there in them days, and they wouldn’t be seen dead there now, they’re flying out to Marbella and all them places. But we didn’t even know Marbella existed, and couldn’t a’ cared less, it was lovely on a sunny Dublin Sunday to reach the beach there along the Great South Wall, and lie down on our towels, and feel the lovely bake in the sun, and then crawl down to the water dead with the roasting, and fling yourself in, and the kids with the buckets, and maybe the poorer kids with wooden spoons out a’ their mam’s dresser, and the boys never had proper togs in them days, you should a’ seen the gear they wore, maybe big ould knicks of their da’s held on with a pin, but girls liked to have a nice one-piece, we called them, with a frilly bit under the breast, you know, ah yeh, like fucking Hollywood we thought we were.

Diving into that lovely water.

And the lovely sun.

And all.

And Joe saying, ‘I’m only fucking roastin’.’

That sort a’ thing.

I do remember that sort a’ thing, you know.

And then I hear nothing and I’m probably not even thinking about Joe any more, it’s that long a time, when this fucking letter comes. I have it in me pocket. Listen.

‘Go to the Angel’s Acre, please, Janet, do. Nine a’ clock sharp Thursday morning coming.’

And a few other things, and how’s everything and all that.

He never was no Shakespeare, my Joe.

No way was I going to go. He had wrote a few times before that, but I never paid no heed – whiney letters really.

Except it suddenly struck me, you know, that’s where Billy’s buried.

Maybe it’s something about Billy.

And there wasn’t another thing that could a’ made me even think a’ going, only Billy.

But I didn’t want to go, because Joe bate the shite out a’ me that night, and me wearing the green jersey and all.

And everything else, God knows. He said in court he never bate the young French lad, but somebody bate him. Bate him senseless. To death. His mother had to come from France to fetch him. Oh, Jesus.

But, but, but.

Yeh, I know. The fecking eejit.

It was Billy’s love made me, and the love I had for Billy. Billy, my little boy, that was killed by a lorry in Parnell Street.

So I did, and I went to Glasnevin that day.

And I needn’t a’ worried, because there was no sign at all of Joe, he wasn’t even there.