Well, that’s better than ten. I’ll be fourteen in September. Do you want to know why I’m in the Fever Hospital? I do. I have diphtheria and something else. What’s something else? They don’t know. They think I have a disease from foreign parts because my father used to be in Africa. I nearly died.Are you going to tell me what you look like? I have black hair. You and millions. I have brown eyes with bits of green that’s called hazel. You and thousands. I have stitches on the back of my right hand and my two feet where they put in the soldier’s blood. Oh, God, did they? They did. You won’t be able to stop marching and saluting. There’s a swish of habit and click of beads and then Sister Rita’s voice.  Now,  now,  what’s  this? There’s  to  be  no  talking  between  two rooms especially when it’s a boy and a girl. Do you hear me, Patricia? I do, Sister. Do you hear me, Francis? I do, Sister. You could be giving thanks for your two remarkable recoveries.You could be saying the rosary.You could be reading The Little Messenger of the Sacred Heart that’s beside your beds.Don’t let me come back and find you talking. She comes into my room and wags her finger at me. Especially you, Francis, after  thousands  of  boys  prayed  for  you  at  the  Confraternity. Give thanks, Francis, give thanks. She leaves and there’s silence for awhile. Then Patricia whispers, Give  thanks,  Francis,  give  thanks,  and  say  your  rosary,  Francis,  and  I laugh so hard a nurse runs in to see if I’m all right. She’s a very stern nurse from the County Kerry and she frightens me.What’s this, Fran- cis? Laughing? What is there to laugh about? Are you and that Madigan girl talking? I’ll report you to Sister Rita.There’s to be no laughing for you could be doing serious damage to your internal apparatus. She plods out and Patricia whispers again in a heavy Kerry accent, No laughing, Francis, you could be doin’ serious damage to your inter- 194