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meet him in the town that evening to hear how he’d gotten on.
    Perhaps it was his country accent, or perhaps he simply wasn’t qualified for the jobs for which he applied, but in the weeks that followed my father could find no work at all. Occasionally he was short-listed; now and again he had an interview, but eventually he grew tired of filing forms to no avail and resigned himself to being unemployed. For a while he spent his time in the hills above the city with his books and a flask of tea, but eventually the weather disowned him and he was forced indoors.
    Madelaine was an indifferent housekeeper. She liked to keep the floors swept and the porcelain surfaces in the bathroom clean, but dusting bored her so she never did it. She was a competent but unenthusiastic cook, preferring simply to stock the kitchen and have her guests prepare their meals themselves. Gradually, and without intention, my father took on the minor chores: he’d collect the soiledlinen, recreate the unmade beds, or push a broom around the kitchen whenever he grew restless or whatever he was reading temporarily lost appeal. He’d been doing this for more than a month when Madelaine approached him one evening after tea to suggest he abandon his search for a job in the city and look after the house full-time.
    It was easy work, and after weeks of frustration and disappointment he accepted with relief. He did the shopping, the cooking, and the washing up; he boiled the tea in the morning, kept track of the lodgers throughout the day, and in the evenings secured the door and banked the fire before he went upstairs to bed. In return for his services, Madelaine allowed him room and board, and finagled him free membership at the private library where she worked. Within the year she’d agreed to be his bride.
    My father’s marriage did not alter his circumstances or improve his attitude towards his surroundings. The arrangement did, however, provide him with the companionship of a partner who understood and sympathised with him. My mother knew that had it been possible, her husband would have returned at once to his father’s pastures; indeed, he never would have left them. Her own wish was simply to leave the Shankill for anywhere else at all, though why she was so desperate to leave was never very clear. By way of explanation she would say only that she didn’t like the people, and since she had grown up with them, antipathy was her right. It was true she had never found her niche among the women of the Road, that the schoolmates and relations with whom she’d been most friendly had long since moved to Dublin or crossed over to Stranrear. It was true, too, that she valued her privacy and disliked the tradition of unexpected visits which was so much a part of life on the Road. And yet so many people knew and liked her that the greeting cards we got at Christmas could cover the surfaceof every sill and end table, while others hung from lengths of ribbon which each year spilled down like bunting over the branches of our tree.
    Every Wednesday on her day off from work she would go down to the Housing Executive to inquire into the status of her application for a transfer. She knew every official and representative by name, and would pester them with phone calls and letters until they either transferred or retired, or departed this world for the next. To whomever replaced them she would send a note of welcome and a copy of her file, but still she wasn’t moved.
    My father would accompany her on her weekly visits to the Housing Executive, and before Stephen and Nicola were born and I was left at home to mind them, my support was enlisted as well. During these interviews my mother refused to be put off by the kind of excuses that invariably silenced her neighbours. If the files had been lost or the computer had gone down, she had her own copies with her in her bag. If the application forms had been updated and she had to