‘Some of the phrasing,’ Peter said. ‘Subject, object … who’s been teaching you English all these years?’

‘The Brady Bunch.’

‘Apparently.’ He looked up. ‘Done.’

I studied the essay, covered with red scrawl. ‘Needs some work?’

‘Write another version, taking in all my suggestions. Then bring it back and we’ll have another go.’

‘It’s that bad?’

‘It is. You want an A?’

‘I guess.’

‘You can’t guess. You need to want one.’ He waited. ‘There’s a million kids out there writing the same essay.’

I thought of giving some statement of personal beliefs. About the man, and the system, and one thing you can’t hide is when you’re crippled inside, and how I didn’t want to play the game, although looking back now, I had no idea what the game was. Me being a dickhead, probably. Disguising my laziness and lack of originality as attitude. The John Lennon of Lanark Avenue. Although Lanark Avenue didn’t need one. What it needed was an A, so the next generation didn’t have to live in fibro houses.

‘This is how it happened,’ Peter said.

‘How what happened?’

‘My dad. When I was a little fella I came home with a D for maths. And he sat where you are, and I sat here, and he said: We travelled all his way, went to all this trouble, and you bring home a D.’

I waited.

‘I felt sort of bad, and said, I’ll get an A next term, and he said, I hope so, cos your mum’d be heartbroken if she thought …’ He stopped, remembering, I suppose. ‘So then he dropped dead, guessing I couldn’t do better than a D. At which point, Clem, I could’ve said one of two things: Well, what’s the point? He’ll never know now. Or: I promised you an A. I’ll get an A.’

I waited. ‘So?’

‘But when the results were in the teacher said, Peter Donnellan, eighty-four, B, and I was gutted. I said: What do I gotta do to get an A? She said, Work harder. Then I told her about my dad and what I’d promised, and do you know what she said?’

‘What?’

‘Maybe next term.’ He smiled, and shook his head. ‘What a bitch!’

‘She wouldn’t—’

‘But I explained to Mum and she understood. After that I was a different boy. I did what it took, Clem.’ He waved my essay under my nose. ‘Gotta make the choice. You gonna do it again?’

‘Righto. Next week.’

‘By Thursday.’

This is what Pop had told me about the Donnellan boys: mowing lawns until the mower broke, then cutting by hand. Delivering newspapers. Up and down the street, knock-knock, Can I wash yer car, Mr Rosie? Gathering bottles and taking them around to Don’s, hanging the washing, cleaning the toilets (until David started feeling stiff), whizzing their way through childhood in search of coins, cleanliness, and high marks. Pop would say, ‘They were stand-outs, Clem. You wanna be like them.’