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secretive way, asking about him, perhaps following him in disguise or looking out from a tavern or coffee house doorway as James passed in and out of the old city. He felt sure he had seen his father once or twice, in the distance and not very clearly but still unmistakably him. Maybe he wasn’t completely abandoned; maybe there was a path back to the affections of his father.
    Harry interrupted this thoughts. ‘Have you really never gone back?’
    ‘No,’ James said.
    ‘Well then, go, find out what’s happening. Maybe your father has changed his mind.’
    James hesitated. The word ‘father’ produced a strange sensation in him, a kind of sickening, in which fear and sorrow were the main ingredients. Was it really possible that there might be a way back to his old life? It had not been a happy life, but at least he knew where the next meal was coming from and where he would lay his head at night.
    ‘Only if you come with me,’ he said finally.
    Later that evening, after Harry had finished his work for the day, the two boys crossed the river and made their way towards James’s father’s house. The streets were dark and lifeless, with just the occasional carriage trundling past. James grew more agitated the closer he came to his old home. He had no clear idea of what he would do when he got there, and was beginning to regret the impulse to go back. It did not feel as if he was coming home, but more like he was entering a dark cave full of hidden danger. He felt like Hansel following the bright stones back to the house where no welcome was waiting. He had to force himself onward. At last they arrived in the street. There was a sudden flurry of noise and activity as the coach from Newry pulled in and the passengers descended as the coachman set down their luggage. Harry and James hid in the shadows until the last passenger had gone, then James walked on the other side of the street, glancing across at the terracewhere his father’s house was. As he approached his old home James suddenly started. A black wreath hung on the front door. James’s heart thumped uncontrollably. He walked past the house, then turned on his heel and went back again. It was the right house, and the wreath was still there.
    ‘Looks like somebody has died,’ Harry said.
    James stood rooted to the pavement. In the upstairs windows he could see the glow of candles, but he couldn’t make out any figures. He couldn’t bring himself to knock on the front door.
    ‘We’ll go round the back,’ he whispered to Harry, and led him to the laneway at the back at the houses until they came in by the stable and crept up to the kitchen window.
    Mrs Rudge and Smeadie were sitting down to their supper at the table and James rapped on the windowpane to attract their attention. Both looked up at once, and James watched the colour drain from Mrs Rudge’s face as she looked at him. After some hesitation, Smeadie opened the door a crack and hissed, ‘What do you want?’ He looked in distaste at Harry.
    ‘Smeadie, it’s me,’ James said. ‘And Harry is with me. Let us in, can’t you?’
    ‘It’s more than my job’s worth to let you in, sir.’ Smeadie looked embarrassed by his confession, but he didn’t open the door any further.
    Then they heard Mrs Rudge’s firm voice behind him. ‘Let them in.’
    Reluctantly, Smeadie admitted the two boys. Mrs Rudge took one look at them and sat them down at the table, withouta word, then produced two bowls of steaming food and commanded them to eat. After they had swallowed a few mouthfuls, James asked about the black wreath he had seen on the door.
    Smeadie and Mrs Rudge looked at each other awkwardly. Finally Mrs Rudge spoke. ‘It’s given out that you died, master. The wreath is for you.’
    James almost choked on his stew. ‘Dead? How can I be dead? Look at me!’
    Smeadie gazed at him, as if not quite convinced that he was real and not a ghost returned to cause trouble for his master. ‘His lordship