man to bother with the likes of me.â
âSo you have seen him again?â
âI didnât sayââ
âThen how do you know heâs so busy?â
âMaeve, dearest, you shouldnât jump to conclusions.â
âIs it for the hugginâ you see him?â
âMaeve! Enough!â
âIf I was your age anâ Mr Hagarty gave me the eyeââ
âThe eye? What is all this nonsense?â
âJansis saysââ
âJansis, is it?â Sylvie said. âJansis had better watch out for her job.â
Maeve sat back, head cocked. Curls bobbed across her cheek but the blush had gone. She looked, Sylvie thought, remarkably like the sort of girl sheâd been at that age. There was a photograph in one of the tin boxes in the attic, in fact, a studio picture; she, dainty little Sylvie, seated on a rickety little chair, her foster-father behind her, a hand on her shoulder, his thumb tucked into his waistcoat pocket; she with such a knowing expression on her face that her foster-father had never dared show the picture to her aunt.
âIt isnât Jansisâs fault,â said Maeve. âI saw you.â
âSaw me?â Sylvieâs mouth went dry and the hair on the nape of her neck rose as if an icy wind had blown through the room. âSaw me where?â
âI followed you for a piece.â
âF-followed me?â
âYou went up across the Parade. You shouldâve tooken a tram.â
âHow dare you? How dare you!â Sylvie hissed. âSpying on your own mother.â
âIt is where he lives, isnât it? Endicott Street?â
âIf you ever â if you ever follow me againââ
âCharlie told me: Endicott Street: Mr Hagarty,â Maeve said. âI think itâs awful brave of you, Mam.â
âBrave?â Sylvie felt as if her tongue were frozen to the roof of her mouth. âBrave, for d-doing w-what?â
âYouâre doing it to save Daddy, arenât you?â
âDoing what?â
âMeeting Mr Hagarty,â Maeve said. âCharlie told me it was Mr Hagarty told him not to put Dad on the spot âcause he took those guns away.â
âWhen did you talk to Charlie?â
âHe came round the other day, Tuesday, the day the war started.â
âWhy didnât you tell me?â
âHe said for me not to tell you.â
âWhere was Jansis?â
âMakinâ beds upstairs. Whereâs the spot, tell me?â
âIt doesnât mean â it isnât â itâs not a place.â
âDaddy shouldnât know, should he? About the spot, I mean?â
âNo, dearest, no.â
In the kitchen the big kettle with the whistling spout sang.
Sylvie felt as if she were melting away. She wanted to clasp Maeve to her and rock her in her arms, assure her that it was all just silly grown-up nonsense but she guessed that Maeve wouldnât swallow the lie and that the insidious process of corruption had already begun.
âDaddy shouldnât know youâve been talkinâ to Mr Hagarty, should he?â
âNo.â
Maeve nodded sagely. âHe has his pride, I suppose â Daddy.â
Sylvie paused then said, âI wonât be visiting Mr Hagarty again.â
âWhy ever not?â
âBecause it â heâ¦â
âDoes he not like you?â
âYes, butâ¦â
âAnd you like him,â said Maeve. âI like him too. He saved Daddyâs bacon.â
âIs that what Charlie told you?â
âAye.â
âMaeve, is Mr Hagarty one of the brotherhood?â
âI donât know what he is,â Maeve said. âI just think heâs awful nice.â
âHeâs awfully clever,â Sylvie said. âIâll give him that.â
âDoes he hug you?â
âNo.â
âDoesnât he want to?â
âI donât know. We