‘We need to talk, Joseph.’

Joe Martin had just finished a juicy slice of apple tart and he pushed aside his plate and looked across the dinner table at his father. Nobody except Dad ever called him Joseph, and he much preferred the more informal Joe, but he could hardly tell his father what to call him. Joe had been looking forward to returning to the Sherlock Holmes detective story that he was engrossed in, but now he would have to postpone that pleasure.

‘OK, Dad,’ he said. Although he was eager to resume reading, part of him was curious about what it was his father wanted to discuss. Dad wasn’t normally a great one for talking, so this was unusual.

‘It’s eh…it’s a little tricky, Joseph,’ he said, looking uncomfortable.

Joe knew it must be something important for Dad to raise an awkward topic. He loved his father, who was decent and kind, but sometimes Joe wished that he wasn’t so reserved. But then Dad had never been good at showing his feelings – even before Mam had died. After the heartbreak of her death, though, Joe had thought he and Dad might form a closer bond. But in the three years since then Joe had had to accept that Dad hadn’t really changed. He looked at his father now and tried to help him out.

‘Whatever it is, Dad, just tell me.’

‘It’s Tim. Tim Kavanagh.’

‘What about Tim?’

‘I know you’re good pals, and he’s a nice boy, but…’

‘What?’

‘I think it might be wise to step back a little, Joseph. Just for now.’

‘Step back?’

‘Perhaps not see him too much. Until this theft business has been sorted out.’

Joe was shocked by his father’s suggestion. The previous week there had been a sensational art theft when the train from Galway to Dublin had been transporting valuable paintings back to the National Gallery after an exhibition. The most valuable of the paintings had somehow gone missing between the train leaving Galway and arriving in the capital. Tim’s father, Mr Kavanagh, was the guard on the train, and along with the driver, fireman, and three mail clerks, he had been questioned by the police.

‘Ah, Dad!’ said Joe. ‘You don’t really think Mr Kavanagh was involved?’

‘No, Joseph, I don’t. But it’s not what I think that matters. This reflects badly on the Midland Great Western Railway. Management are most unhappy.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘The newspapers are having a field day, Joseph. The police are in a tizzy. So, the whole company is under a cloud. I have to think of my position, for the sake of our family.’

Joe knew that his father put a high value on the fact that he was a white-collar worker in the Midland Great Western Railway’s Headquarters at nearby Broadstone Station. The houses in the Great Western Square complex had been built for employees of the railway, but there were deliberate differences in design, with general workers like Tim’s dad living in a terrace of smaller houses while Joe and his father lived in a larger house that had a pocket garden in front. Joe thought that such distinctions were foolish, but he knew his father – and the railway company – took these things seriously, so he had to go carefully here.

‘I know, Dad, that the robbery was awful. But I thought that under the law you’re innocent until proven guilty.’

‘Well, yes, that’s true. But…’

‘But not Mr Kavanagh?’

‘Don’t put words in my mouth, Joseph. I told you I don’t doubt Mr Kavanagh’s honesty. And this would only be until this issue is sorted out.’

‘What happens if it’s not sorted out? Supposing they never catch the thief?’

‘We must hope and pray that’s not the case. It’s just…this is a difficult time, Joseph.’

‘Is that not when a true friend should stand by his pal?’

Joe looked appealingly at his father. In fairness to Dad, he had always had a strong sense of justice, and Joe hoped that his arguments might have swayed him.

Dad looked torn, then seemed to reach a decision.

‘All right, then. You don’t have to break off contact with Tim. But be discreet, Joseph. Tim’s father is certain to be questioned further. So when it comes to the Kavanaghs, try to keep out of the public gaze, all right?’

Joe looked at his father and felt a surge of affection for him. ‘All right, Dad,’ he said. ‘And…and thanks…’

* * *

Golden evening sunshine flooded the backyard, the heat of the June day lingering in the air. The puffing of a steam train approaching Broadstone station drowned out the earlier sound of birdsong, and clouds of smoke from the train’s engine rose into the blue summer sky as Tim Kavanagh and Deirdre, his twin, sat on a bench in their small backyard.

‘This feels like rubbish!’ said Tim, putting down a sheet with lyrics written on it. ‘I can’t concentrate. I can’t make this better.’

‘I’m the same,’ said Deirdre.

They were supposed to be working on a comedy song that they were to perform with their friend Joe Martin at the annual Great Western Square residents’ concert, but Tim breathed out in frustration. ‘It feels kind of silly now,’ he said. ‘Compared to what’s happening with Da.’

‘I know,’ agreed Deirdre. ‘I hate the way they’re acting like he’s a thief. I mean, anyone who knows Da could tell you he’s dead honest.’

‘They don’t care,’ said Tim. ‘They just want to arrest someone for the stolen painting.’

‘Did you know that when the train reached Dublin they didn’t just question Da, they searched him too?’

‘What?’

‘Like he was a pickpocket or something,’ added Deirdre disgustedly.

‘Did Da tell you this?’

‘No. You know him, he’s bending over backwards to shield us. But I heard him talking to Ma before he left, and he’s worried sick.’

Tim felt really bad. His father had gone fishing in the Royal Canal, and Tim suspected that it was to give him a break from putting on a brave face.

‘It’s so unfair,’ he said. ‘People who don’t know him could think he’s a thief now.’

‘That’s not his biggest worry,’ said Deirdre.

‘No? What is?’

‘He said to Ma he was afraid he could lose his job.’

‘They can’t do that!’ said Tim immediately.

Deirdre didn’t answer, and Tim looked at her enquiringly. ‘Can they?’

‘Who knows?’

‘Surely they’d need proof to sack you for being a thief.’

‘You’d think so. But maybe if there’s a question mark over your good name they could decide they don’t want you working for them.’

‘I wish they’d just catch the thief and end all this,’ said Tim.

‘Me too. But we can’t do anything right now, so we should probably try to work on the song.’

‘All right. I wonder what’s keeping Joe?’

‘He said he’ll be here, so he will be.’

Tim nodded as he picked up the lyrics again. Deirdre was right, and Tim knew he was lucky to have a friend like Joe who was always as good as his word. In some ways they were unlikely friends. Joe was strong and sporty, and the star of their school’s Gaelic football team. Tim by contrast was slightly built and not very good at sports. But both boys loved reading, and the combination of being bookworms, close neighbours, and the same age had made them firm friends.

‘I wonder would the sketch work better if I did the song in a different accent?’ said Tim, studying the lyrics again.

Deirdre considered for a moment ‘Well, you brought the house down when you did the Scottish accent at last year’s concert.’

Tim knew he was good at acting – it was what he wanted to do when he grew up – but he looked at his sister uncertainly. ‘Or maybe that would feel like we were repeating ourselves.’

‘Look who’s coming,’ said Deirdre. ‘Why don’t we ask himself?’

Tim looked up from the lyrics as the back door opened, then Joe stepped out into the yard.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late.’

‘It’s grand,...