When she had finished clearing up, she went to the sitting room and shook coal on the fire from the brass scuttle. Her mother was silent, but her body was taut, as if she was ready for combat.

The phone began to ring. It’s hardly for me, Gina said.

Cushla went to the hall to answer it. The sound of coins dropping again. Michael? she whispered.

It’s me, Cushla. Tommy.

Is everything all right?

Great. Our Davy ate all his chocolate by four and broke out in hives.

Oh God, she said, lifting the phone and sitting on the third stair. He’ll be sick.

Too late. I told him he should have cut out the middle man and flushed it down the toilet.

Cushla laughed. How are you doing?

Grand. I just wanted to say sorry. About earlier. I get angry. Like I could kill them. She heard the strike of a match and he breathed in deeply.

It’s OK.

Aye. Well. Thanks for the eggs and all.

You’re welcome, Tommy. And stop smoking.

Yes, miss, he said, taking another drag and exhaling theatrically. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then he said, Is it OK, like? Me ringing you up.

Of course it is. Any time at all. The line began to beep and he was gone.

She replaced the receiver. Maybe her mother was right and Cushla could help them, not just Davy, but Tommy too. It made her feel good. Grown-up, useful. She wished she could talk to Michael, right now, and tell him. The telephone directory was on her left. She pulled it towards her and hesitated before opening it. She found his entry: Agnew, M&J, his address beneath it. She put her finger by the 9 and turned it. Then she turned 2 3 9 0. She held her finger over 6, her heart pounding. She withdrew it and replaced the receiver.

10

10

Davy’s backside was protruding from beneath the net curtain. Goal! he said.

Come away from there, said Tommy. You don’t even like football.

I might if they’d let me play.

They won’t, so get down.

Davy emerged from the cloud of white nylon and launched himself on to the settee, where Tommy was sitting with his hand closed around the notebook in which he had written Cushla’s number. His knuckles were nicked and swollen. Trevor’s a good laugh, Davy said. Him and me would get on great if he was allowed to talk to me.

Aye. They’re all a barrel of laughs round here, said Tommy.

Listen, said Davy, cocking his ear stagily. Trevor’s singing a song.

Is it the one about being up to his knees in Fenian blood? said Tommy.

It’s the one about Mr Bradley.

Davy, don’t, said Mandy, with a look at Cushla.

What’s this? said Cushla.

Wait till you hear, said Davy, leaping to his feet.