Little Katie has crept into my room, climbed into bed with me. She always does when they are fighting. She gets scared.
They are down in the kitchen shouting it out at the moment, as they do on the last Friday of every month. They shout about money. It’s always the same.
It starts with the golf. He’ll have to quit she tells him, they can’t keep up the payments.
He roars a fake laugh, if he quits the golf club he might as well quit work, that’s where he gets three quarters of his contracts. Why has she still got them enrolled at the Country Club? That is what has to go!
No, not that, she screams. She would never be able to face her parents. Why doesn’t he take a packed lunch to the office? Why does she need to get her hair done every week? How many pairs of shoes does one woman need?
It doesn’t bother me any more, not like it did when I was small like Katie.
I hold her close and sing The Connemara Cradle Song while I rock her to sleep.
Tomorrow they won’t be talking, I think that’s even worse.