He was out of his buggy and inside the close before his Dad could catch him. And then his Dad was there and swinging him high onto his shoulders; so high that Stevie had to grab a handful of his T-shirt, leaning against his warm neck, lurching up the first flight and on. “Haud tight. We’re up the top, son.” They were going to look at the new place. Stevie’s Dad had seen it already, but not his Mum, and he could hear her on the stair now: she was laughing, just behind them and gaining ground, taking the steps two at a time, and when Stevie reached for her, twisting round, she had her hands out, ready to catch a hold. “Mind yourself, daft boy. Still two flights to go.” Then he was in her arms, and he could see over her shoulder, all the way back down the close they were climbing. It was a tight twist of stairs, still wet from being mopped, flakes of colour coming off the walls; cream up top and blue below. There was a hand on the banister one floor down. That was his Gran’s hand, and she always came with them; if Stevie wasn’t carried by his mother, he was carried by her, so he called: “Mon up!”
