The air hung heavy with the foggy dew of a February morning, pawing at the window. I sat rigid at the table, uncomfortable in the starched school shirt that was too small but would see me through to the end of the year. The cornflakes Ma poured into my bowl tinkled merrily against the threatening chorus outside — the regimented tramp of a platoon of British Lancers echoing through the single-pane window. The footfalls of the soldiers’ heavy boots harmonised with the melodic jingle of rifles clashing against their belts. The soldiers passed by our home, unseen in the fog. A siren and the passing drone of a Chinook helicopter drowned out the sounds, tremoring the milk bottle on the table, but neither Ma nor me paid heed—nothing new for a Belfast morning.

        A little milk splashed onto the table as Ma filled the bowl and seeped down into the wood grains of the table before a cloth could be had. The sound of the siren and Chinook died into the distance.

        I thought of Da, passing by the soldiers with a bottle of milk in one hand and a wave in the other, moving like a ghost among them on his rounds. 

        “Hurry yourself up, or you’ll be late,” Ma said before dragging the hairbrush through my tattered mane, which I insisted looked better rough, like Lennon or McCartney. The futility of it was lost on her–though her annoyance was clear when I ran my fingers through it, immediately undoing her hard work. 

        “Have you your prayers said?”

        “Yes,” I lied, not daring to look up at the reproachful eyes of the Sacred Heart picture that hung from the wall. In my mind’s eye, I saw its little red light blaze and rebuke me. “Well, no. But I’ll say them on my way to school. I promise.”

        Ma sighed. “You will in me arse.”

        The little radio sitting on the counter spat a Hugo Duncan crooning song my mother liked, and she hummed to herself and flitted from mother job to mother job; cleaning and wiping, hanging the wet clothes, and folding the dry. 

        I shovelled in a mouthful, allowing the crunch to drown the world around me. 

        “Ma, sugar, please,” I said, mouth still full, sending a burst of cornflake shrapnel into the air. 

        She whisked the sugar over and wiped down the table once more, humming the dying notes of the song.  

        I sat in Da’s chair in imitation of the man of the house. He was never there in the mornings. He was the milkman, passing through the local streets in his van before the cocks had time to clear their throats, swapping empty bottles for full ones, often with only the dawning sun for company. 

        He’d tut, and he’d sigh as he trundled past the burnt-out cars and the bombed-out bars of Belfast. He’d nod to soldier and gunman alike as he made his rounds and meow to the black and tanned cats that prowled the streets, for few others were out that early. 

        That’s how he was known; open, friendly, peaceful. 

        “We’re all born the same, we all die the same,” he’d say, “and we’re all the same in between.”

        That’s how he raised me; free from the hatred and division that festered in our town, its putrid stench lingering on every corner. But I never liked the sight of the soldiers, with their tanks, and guns, and coils of barbed wire. The boys in school would talk about their fathers, leaving in the night in khaki clothes and balaclavas to lay in ambush with rifles and revolvers. I didn’t talk like that. I was called a coward. 

        I took another spoonful of cereal, much more to my taste this time, the flakes not offering as much resistance. 

        “Fix your tie, will you? You look like you were reared in a field; that’s no way to be heading off to school.”

        The usual scolding from Ma on a weekday morning. 

        The song on the radio ended and rang eight bells. A familiar voice greeted us. “Good morning; it is eight o’clock, and you’re listening to BBC Radio Ulster. The headlines.”

        We continued our customs; me chewing, Ma cleaning. 

        Crunch, wipe, fold. 

        And the radio said, “There’s another shot dead on the streets of Belfast. Early reports say he died with a gun in his hand.”

        Crunch, wipe, fold. 

        The reporter prattled on about other disturbances, the humdrum of the politicians, the rise of fuel costs. Another Belfast morning, the same old routine. I wondered if the soldiers would make me late for school.

        Crunch, wipe, fold. 

        The knock at the door–three heavy raps– broke the dullness. 

        I looked at Ma. Her eyes were wide. With Da on the rounds, I was the man of the house. I started to rise, but Ma’s firm hand lowered me to my seat. 

        “Stay,” she ordered and I obeyed. 

        I watched her as she stepped from the kitchen, a drying cloth in hand. I heard her gasp from the hallway as she opened the door. I knew what that meant. 

        The chill of the foggy dew rushed the open door and seized me.