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sherry trifle brought wobbling to the table in Junie’s capable hands. Thanking God that he had finally landed on his feet, he’d polished off two bowls before his father admitted defeat and retired upstairs with Junie ‘for a rest’.
    Turning on the brand new television set, the boy sat and laughed at Tony Hancock. He was cracking nuts and drinking a beer when Junie came down in her dressing gown.
    Taking the cut-glass bowl from his lap, she replaced it on the sideboard. Grim-faced she slid a doily under the glass he used for his beer and peered at him closely.
    ‘Let’s get this straight first off, young man. You are here on sufferance because your father’s here. I’ll feed you and water you, and we’ll be civil. But you don’t touch anything in this house without my express permission. Do you understand me?’
    Eamonn Junior looked into her cold grey eyes and nodded.
    ‘Now get yourself up and have a bath, you smell of the slums, boy. In future you’ll bathe twice a week and you’ll leave your boots outside the front door. And if you don’t like it . . . well, you know what you can do, don’t you? Your father burned his boats today. If I give you both your marching orders, what else is there for you? Think on that.’
    In the shiny bathroom, Eamonn thought of sausage sandwiches and Madge’s haphazard attentions and realised that he had been better off where he was. His dad was doing all right, but what was there in all this for him, he wondered. The old biddy didn’t like him, and he certainly didn’t like her.
    Downstairs he could hear his father’s booming laughter. Eamonn shuddered. He was missing the old place already. For all the niceness of this house, he knew he’d never be welcome. Hadn’t June gone out of her way to tell him he was only here on sufferance?
    When he arrived downstairs, she was all sweetness and light, making them turkey sandwiches and cups of sweet tea. When she finally went out to the kitchen to wash up, Eamonn Senior looked at his son and said with pride: ‘I’m for marrying her, son.’
    The boy laughed softly. ‘You’re joking, Dad!’
    His father frowned. ‘What’s to joke about? Are you blind or something? Look around you, for Christ Himself’s sake. We’re well set on here, you fecking eejit!’
    The boy shook his head and sighed. ‘And you called poor old Madge a whore! You’re no better. You lived off her and now you’ll live off this one.’
    His father’s expression changed then, a subtle change that told Eamonn he had better watch his step. His father was still on his best behaviour but he’d hammer the boy if the need arose.
    ‘And you’re no better than me. You’ve always looked out for number one, and no doubt you always will. I’d exchange you in the morning for young Cathy, because she’s got more heart than you’ll ever have. Madge will be all right all the time she has Cathy to look out for her. I only wish I’d been blessed with such a child, because you’d see me dying and look for the angle before offering me help!’
    Eamonn Junior stared at his father. ‘Well, I had a good teacher, didn’t I?’
    The big man was not offended. He nodded solemnly. ‘Aye, son, you did that. If I gave you nothing else, I gave you a shrewd brain.’
    Junie bustled into the room once more, pleased as punch to have the big Irish navvy sitting in her late husband’s chair. Smiling at him, she settled into her own and began to sew, humming softly under her breath.
    Eamonn watched his father put away beer after beer and sandwich after sandwich. Looking round the room, he costed up everything in his head. One day, when he was older, he’d clear this place out and leave the pair of them with nothing.
    The thought cheered him, more so when he saw his father making sheep’s eyes at the little dark-haired widow with her soft Irish accent and heart of steel.
    Later, lying between the crisp white sheets of a proper bed, he decided to go round to Madge’s the