.     .     . School starts in September and some days Michael stops at The Abbot’s before the walk home to Laman Griffin’s.On rainy days he says,Can I stay here tonight? and soon he doesn’t want to go back to Laman Griffin’s at all. He’s worn out and hungry with two miles out and two miles back. When Mam comes looking for him I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know how to look at her and I keep my eyes off to one side. She says, How’s the job? as if nothing ever happened in Laman Griffin’s and I say, Grand, as if nothing ever happened in Laman Griffin’s. If the rain is too heavy for her to go home she stays in the small room upstairs with Alphie. She goes back to Laman’s the next day but Michael stays and soon she’s moving in herself bit by bit till she stops going to Laman’s altogether. The Abbot pays the rent every week. Mam gets the relief and the food dockets till someone informs on her and she’s cut off from the Dispensary. She’s told that if her son is bringing in a pound a week that’s  more  than  some  families  get  on  the  dole  and  she  should  be grateful he has a job. Now I have to hand over my wages. Mam says,A pound? Is that all you get for riding around in all kinds of weather? This would be four dollars in America. Four dollars.And you couldn’t feed a cat for four dollars in New York. If you were delivering telegrams for Western Union in New York you’d be earning twenty-five dollars a week and living in luxury. She always translates Irish money into Amer- ican so that she won’t forget and tries to convince everyone times were better over there. Some weeks she lets me keep two shillings but if I go to a film or buy a secondhand book there’s nothing left, I won’t be able to save for my fare, and I’ll be stuck in Limerick till I’m an old man of twenty-five. Malachy writes from Dublin to say he’s fed up and doesn’t want to spend  the  rest  of  his  life  blowing  a  trumpet  in  the  army  band. He’s home in a week and complains when he has to share the big bed with Michael,Alphie and me. He had his own army cot up there in Dublin with sheets and blankets and a pillow. Now he’s back to overcoats and a bolster that sends up a cloud of feathers when you touch it. Mam says, Pity about you. I’m sorry for your troubles. The Abbot has his own bed, and my mother has the small room. We’re all together again, no Laman  tormenting  us. We  make  tea  and  fried  bread  and  sit  on  the kitchen  floor. The Abbot  says  you’re  not  supposed  to  be  sitting  on 319