Mandy’s hands flew up to her eyes. Oh God, she said.

Davy began a lolloping march up and down the length of the sitting room. The song was to a jaunty, music-hall tune:

‘Our wee school’s a great wee school, it’s made of bricks and plaster,

the only thing that’s wrong with it is our wee baldy master.

He goes to the pub on Saturday night, he goes to church on Sunday,

he prays to God to give him strength to slaughter us on Monday.’

Cushla looked from Mandy to Tommy. The three of them dissolved into giggles. Davy said he had an even better one. Simmer down, wee man, said Tommy.

I thought you liked poems, said Davy, hurling himself on to the settee again.

I don’t think that was strictly a poem, said Cushla.

Our Tommy writes poetry in that notebook he keeps in his back pocket, said Davy.

Cushla could almost feel the heat from Tommy’s ears. Shut you up, he warned.

He won’t show them to us, said Davy.

He’s doing English for his A levels so they might be really good, said Mandy.

I did English too, Cushla said. What texts are you reading?

Passage to India. The Woodlanders. Persuasion. Hopkins’s and Browning’s poetry, he told her.

What Shakespeare?

Hamlet and The Winter’s Tale.

What’s your favourite?

Hamlet. Although he fannies about a good bit instead of getting the job done.

I liked The Woodlanders, she said, to avoid hearing Tommy’s views on vengeance. But not as much as I loved Far From the Madding Crowd. And Tess. And Jude the Obscure. Oh my God.

Tommy lifted his chin. Is it that good? he said.

It was months before I opened another book. I was afraid of what I might find between the pages.

I can’t get to the library. My mummy’s at the hospital every day and I don’t want to leave the kids alone.

Kids, said Mandy, putting on a deep voice. What are you?

Tommy got off the settee and went upstairs. They could hear him thudding about overhead and then loud music came on.

You’ve put him in bad form, said Davy.

He’s always in bad form, said Mandy. He was punching the wall out the back last night.

When she was leaving, Cushla stood at the bottom of the staircase and called his name. There was a sound of feet hitting the floor of the room he shared with Davy, the creak of a door. ‘Make Me Smile (Come Up and See Me)’ was playing from a radio, an absurd contrast between the lyrics and the sour twist of his mouth.

Great song, she said. I’ll bring Jude next time.

He went back to his room without a word.