Foster

In the gift gallery there are copy books stacked high and different coloured biros, rulers, mechanical drawing sets. In the hardware, the lunchboxes and satchels and hurling sticks are left out front, where the women can see them.

We come home and take soup, dipping our bread, breaking it, slurping a little, now that we know each other. Afterwards, I follow Kinsella out to the hayshed where he makes me promise not to look while he is welding. I am following him around today, I realise, but I cannot help it. It is past the time for the post to come but he does not suggest I fetch it until evening, until the cows are milked and the milking parlour is swept and scrubbed.

‘I think it’s time,’ he says, washing his boots with the hose.

I get into position, using the front step as a starting block. Kinsella looks at the watch and slices the air with his hand. I take off, down the yard, the lane, make a tight corner, open the box, reach for the letters, and race back to the step, knowing my time was not as fast as yesterday’s.

‘Nineteen seconds faster than your first run,’ Kinsella says. ‘And a two-second improvement on yesterday, despite the heavy ground. It’s like the wind, you are.’

He takes the letters and goes through them, but today, instead of making jokes about what’s inside of each, he pauses.

‘Is that from Mammy?’

‘You know,’ he says, ‘I think it could be.’

‘Do I have to go home?’

‘Well, it’s addressed to Edna so why don’t we give it in to her and let her read it.’

We go into the parlour where she is sitting with her feet up, looking through a book of knitting patterns.

‘This chimney, we never got it cleaned, John. I’m sure there must be a crow’s nest in it.’

Kinsella slides the letter onto her lap, over what she is reading. She sits up, opens the letter and reads it. It’s one small sheet with writing on both sides. She puts it down then picks it up and reads it again.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘you have a new brother. Nine pounds, two ounces.’

‘Great,’ I say.

‘Don’t be like that,’ Kinsella says.

‘What?’ I say.

‘And school starts on Monday,’ she says. ‘Your mother has asked us to leave you up at the weekend so she can get you togged out and all.’

‘I have to go back then?’

‘Aye,’ she says. ‘But sure didn’t you know that?’

I nod and look at the page in her lap.

‘You couldn’t stay here forever with us two old forgeries.