He struggles up to quell the alarm, dresses, and prepares his son’s breakfast. Davy is no better than he is in the morning. ‘Come on, Davy,’ he exhorts, ‘eat up your egg! And stop messing around.’ ‘You’re not eating anything.’ ‘I’m not going to school.’ ‘You’re lucky.’ ‘There’s different ways of looking at it.’ ‘Why aren’t you going?’ The boy is just stalling, he doesn’t really want to know, he senses that it’s difficult ground to tread on and he has been only too ready to accept what he was told: that his father has given up teaching to have more time for his sculpture. ‘I’m not hungry,’ he says finally and pushes the plate away. ‘But I made it specially—’ Cormac removes the mangled egg. He doesn’t know what he’s making so much fuss for; he has given Davy his breakfast on numerous occasions, got him ready for school, taken him there. He doesn’t have to prove anything, not on that score, anyway.
