Through the small scullery window above the gleaming Belfast china sink, I could see clear across the River Medina on Saturday mornings.

'A sure sign of fair weather', my mother would say.

She was always right; it never rained on Saturday mornings.

Instead of rain, my father, who was separated from my mother, would visit us, straight off the night shift ostensibly to give my mother her housekeeping from his wage packet, before returning back to his own mothers where he stayed.

He was warmly welcomed with his tins of fruit, chocolate wholemeal biscuits, or chocolate bars and sweets. Finally he would tantalise us with a brown paper parcel, usually a fresh joint of pork or beef and chipolata sausage.

Treading lightly, he’d come through to the small scullery, and stand against the green gloss painted wall drinking tea with my mother, who would place a ragged damp towel beneth his feet. Despite this humiliating ritual he always filled the bright Saturday morning with chocolate, meat and cigarettes. After an hour or so with my pockets bulging with sweet penny chews, my hands sticky and black with bands of curled Spanish liquorice, I was sent out to leave my parents in peace.

Peace however, like bright sunshine on Saturday mornings never prevailed long.

Soon he would storm out, slamming the front door so hard that it sounded like thunder.

I could hear her sobbing long before I reached the door, which by now was locked and bolted. I would cry with her whispering pleading comfort through the letterbox. Kneeling on her polished floor just inside the doorway, she gave way to her 'Voices' odious succour.

Screaming hysterically, thus ensuring that all within the close proximity understood her next intention. Mad Mary threatening to place her head in the gas oven was almost a weekly occurrence for our neighbours, with those 'we look the other way' expressions on their pathetic sad faces, they had stopped taking Mary seriously a long time ago. The ‘Voices’, impervious to her threats would not let her go, not quite as easily as that anyway.

Saturday afternoons the rain deluged and with never so much as a shilling piece in the red coronation tin, which was kept beside the gas meter. By late afternoon the downpour always slowed to showers turning to a watery thin streak of sunlight,  smudged once more against the small scullery window as the quiet river sparkled and danced into view.

Liken to the sound of distant thunder  a knock from the front door would herald the return of early evening brightness, the knock would sound again as the last diffident cloud blew away. There in the doorway lit by shafts of long shadow sunlight would stand my Father.

Red flowers for a lady.

Barley breath for nothing, and a smile that you could sell by the pound.