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We were thirteen nights in that B & B. Dad went out every single day. He didn’t shave in the mornings any more. He said he was growing a beard. He always put on the spectacles and the cap when he left the house. Mona wondered why I wasn’t accompanying him, and I told her to mind her own business. She didn’t ask after that. Dad said something to her about my hormones. He was always cheery and smiley with her. I stayed in the room by myself and Dad would bring sandwiches sometimes. Dinner by Mona was always strange. Rice and spicy meat stews. It took a bit of getting used to, Dad and I agreed, but by the end of our stay, we found that we enjoyed curries. Mona even told us how she made them and what spices she used.

‘Dad,’ I said one night, leaning over my bed to see him below, brow furrowed, ‘do you like Mona?’

‘Who?’

‘The landlady.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

I liked her, but I didn’t think Dad would approve.

Dad would often come back exhausted and weary. One night, I couldn’t avoid seeing bruises on his ribs as he was undressing for bed. He explained that he had tripped over a dustbin, and he winced as he put his arm into his pyjama top.

One day, he made me come with him. I was scared and excited. There were so many people around and I was nervous of bumping into them, so Dad sort of steered me by standing behind me and putting his hands on my shoulders. I liked that. It was a kind of game. We didn’t go far. He led me to the entrance of Whitechapel tube station. I knew all about the trains that ran underground, but I didn’t want to get on one. I’d seen them on TV, people packed like sardines hanging on to railings from the roof. I could not help tears springing to my eyes. We stopped before the barriers and turned to the left. Dad looked at me. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t want to go on the tube.’

‘Neither do I, so don’t be a girl and dry your tears, because we have to go and get our photographs taken.’ I was confused and wiped my eyes with my sleeve, but he led me to a small booth in the corner of the station. There was barely room for both of us in there, and he said we had to go in one at a time. I waited outside while he went in. I could see flashes of blue light coming from underneath the yellow half-curtain. We waited three minutes and then a row of four photographs came out of a slot in the wall of the booth. They were blank at first, but then, as if by magic, Dad’s image began to appear, his neat new beard appearing first and then the rest of his face. Then it was my turn. He adjusted the swivelling stool and I looked into a mirror that was to take my photo. ‘Don’t blink when it flashes,’ he said, and pulled the curtain behind him. I opened my eyes as wide as I could when the flashes came, but even then, when my image appeared out of the blur afterwards, my eyes were closed in two of the four photos. ‘That’s all right, we only needed one good one.’ He took me back to the B & B and I sat there reading Tom Sawyer, by now bored by the story I had read too many times.

On 31st March, Dad returned victorious with two passports in the name of Steven Armstrong and James Armstrong. They were small navy-blue booklets with our pictures and dates of birth in them. Dad’s birthday was wrong in his one but he said it didn’t matter. They said BRITISH PASSPORT at the top and then, underneath a royal coat of arms and at the bottom, in smaller writing, NEW ZEALAND.

‘The day after tomorrow, Steve, we are going to embark on the most epic journey of our lives. We are going to sail across the world to New Zealand. Our new home.’ I could remember New Zealand on our globe. Two long islands that looked like they might have fallen off the bottom of Australia. I knew that it was home to the kiwi bird and the All Blacks rugby team, that it had mountains and glaciers, and that the climate was not too different to Ireland’s. I also knew that the population of New Zealand was roughly the same as Ireland, even though it was three times the size. There would be plenty of room for us there.

‘Won’t it take an awfully long time?’

‘I expect it will, but you have no idea how expensive these passports were and how difficult they were to get. I had to consort with some rough men, but I got them in the end. Air travel is too risky and I don’t think it would be safe for you, with all that recirculated air from other passengers. We’ll have to buy a house and a car when we get there.’ His excitement was infectious. ‘Look, I got you a few presents.’

He had bought me a pair of gloves and a hat with ear flaps that almost covered my whole head to keep me safe from accidentally touching another person. He presented me with three brand-new books. The Flora and Fauna of New Zealand, New Zealand: The History and Culture of a Great Nation and New Zealand’s Heroes.

‘Are we not Irish any more?’