has to go back to work in Coventry. Mam wonders how he’ll get to Coventry without a penny in his pocket. He’s up early on Holy Satur- day and I have tea with him by the fire. He fries four cuts of bread and wraps  them  in  pages  of  the  Limerick  Chronicle, two  cuts  in  each  coat pocket. Mam is still in bed and he calls to her from the bottom of the stairs, I’m going now. She says,All right.Write when you land. My father is going to England and she won’t even get out of the bed. I ask if I can go with him to the railway station. No, he’s not going there. He’s going to the Dublin road to see if he can get a lift. He pats my head, tells me take care of my mother and brothers and goes out the door. I watch him go up the lane till he turns the corner. I run up the lane to see him go down Barrack Hill and down St. Joseph’s Street. I run down the hill and follow him as far as I can. He must know I’m following him because he turns and calls to me, Go home, Francis. Go home to your mother. In a week there’s a letter to say he arrived safely, that we are to be good boys,attend to our religious duties and above all obey our mother. In another week there’s a telegram money order for three pounds and we’re in heaven.We’ll be rich, there will be fish and chips, jelly and cus- tard, films every Saturday at the Lyric, the Coliseum, the Carlton, the Atheneum, the Central and the fanciest of all, the Savoy.We might even wind up having tea and cakes at the Savoy Café with the nobs and toffs of Limerick. We’ll be sure to hold our teacups with our little fingers sticking out. The next Saturday there’s no telegram nor the Saturday after nor any Saturday forever. Mam begs again at the St.Vincent de Paul Society and smiles at the Dispensary when Mr. Coffey and Mr. Kane have their bit of a joke about Dad having a tart in Piccadilly. Michael wants to know what a tart is and she tells him it’s something you have with tea. She spends most of the day by the fire with Bridey Hannon puffing on her Woodlbines, drinking weak tea.The bread crumbs from the morn- ing are always on the table when we come home from school.She never washes the jam jars or mugs and there are flies in the sugar and wher- ever there is sweetness. She  says  Malachy  and  I  have  to  take  turns  looking  after Alphie, taking him out in the pram for a bit of fresh air.The child can’t be kept in Italy from October to April. If we tell her we want to play with our pals she might let fly with a right cross to the head that stings the ears. We play games with Alphie and the pram. I stand at the top of Bar- rack Hill and Malachy is at the bottom.When I give the pram a push 249