Her judgement of my reading matter soaked me in a shower of shame, and I silently berated myself, 'Why can' t I buy normal comics?' Why can' t I like football magazines? Why can' t I enjoy fishing books?" I knew this woman had rumbled me; she saw my oddness, my difference, and was now exposing it to Granny and Betty Hickey.

Lowering my head, I waited for the other women to admonish me. Betty's voice came dark and delicious. "There's no sin in a comic; it's only cartoons, like Scooby Doo," she said, her words a salve to my shame.

While before I admired Betty Hickey's aesthetic, now I adored her person. Curiously, the woman didn't respond; instead, she handed me back my Creepy, her face crumpled in disdain for the comic and myself.

Granny's words followed, soft and light, "Isn't it great to see him reading. Gerard likes ghosty stories; many do, there's no harm in them," she said, relishing the final remnants of her cone.

This nonchalantly supportive attitude to my choice of reading material by the two senior women settled me. The younger woman's uncertainty of me still bothered, but less so.

So, when Dermot and John came bounding in, my enthusiasm almost matched theirs.

Granny looked at the boys, bewildered, "Are yous not having a cone?"

Dermot answered without lifting his head from a fishing magazine, "We woofed them outside."

Betty guffawed, "Woofed them, like a dog."

He looked up, infected by Betty's mirth, "Yep, dead fast, cos they're dead nice," he said, through a smile.

"Is the ice cream in England not nice, Dermot?" asked Betty.

Dermot jumped off his chair, "Nah, it's horrible," he said before bursting into the song we council kids sang every time the ice-cream van arrived on the estate. "Bergen's ice cream, it tastes like Brylcream. The flakes are bad too, cos they taste like pooh. Don't eat it, you're right, cos it tastes like s...."

John jumped from his chair. "Settle, settle, Dermot!" he said, using his hands like a conductor controlling an orchestra; his gentle admonishment and gesticulations designed to spare the woman any offence.

John was the polar opposite of my brother. Where Dermot was impetuous, feisty, and wilful, John was calm, considered, and collected.

Dermot's reaction was swift, his singing stopped, and he returned to his magazine. A quiet descended, in which I noticed the woman assess Dermot. It was clear his song sullied him somewhat in her eyes – yet she seemed sure of my brother; she knew where to place him in her world.

Granny broke the moment's silence, "Do English cones taste like Shite, Dermot?" she asked, chuckling. Betty joined her in low-level laughter while I stifled my mirth.

The merriment was interrupted by Maria, who appeared from behind the curtain, "What's the joke? Tell us." She said, placing her shopping bag on the table.

As if to diffuse any more talk that would upset the woman, Betty asked, divertingly, "What've you been buying?"

Maria's face lit up as she delved into the bag, "I got this gorgeous dress, for best," she said, pulling out a billowing confection of white.

Betty homed in and held the dress up, looking it over with her fashion-forward eyes, "It's Broderie Anglaise, isn't it just exquisite? You could get married in this, Maria."

I couldn't resist and jumped up to get a closer view, "She's going to marry Bruce Lee," I said, scrutinising the dress to ensure it was befitting of my sister's big day.

I wallowed in its delicate beauty; before being thunderstruck by a revelation – perhaps this was the secret, Maria was getting married, and she hadn't told me. I railed, "You can't get married in this; it's not long. Wedding dresses are supposed to be long nowadays."

Maria tussled my hair, "Don't be mad, I'm not getting married; and besides, do you think I'd choose a dress without your expert eye,' she said.

"Does Gerard like picking out frocks?" I spun around to see the woman gazing at me with the same expression, a look of uncertainty about where she should place me in her world. Realising my reaction to the dress was probably too passionate, I sat down and flicked through my Creepy.

To my surprise and delight, nobody answered her. Not out of rudeness, more out of distraction, as the three women were ensconced in girly talk, the two boys immersed in boy talk, and me in my Creepy.

The woman left the room, taking her uncertainty of me with her. She didn't say goodbye.

......

"When are you gonna wear your new dress?" I asked Maria as we walked to post my card.

"At the end of summer, when Mam and Dad come over, and I've got a bit of colour," she said, taking my hand.

This is when I felt happiest, hand in hand with my big sister. I felt safe and free to say anything, "That woman doesn't like me."

She tugged on my hand, "Don't be daft; everyone loves you," she said, pulling me into a shop.

Maria looked at the postcard, "Do you have Dermot's boat pen?"

"No."

The shopkeeper pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket, "There you go."

She began writing but stopped abruptly, looking at the shopkeeper with concern, "Do you sell single envelopes?"

His hand shuffled under the counter, "We do surely," he said, handing her one.

Maria continued to write, her face tight with concentration. Once finished, she put the card into the envelope, causing me to assert, "NO – you don't need to, I put the address on it already. Postcards don't need to go in envelopes."

"This one does," she said, licking the edges and ensuring it was sealed.

Why would Maria want her message to be unseen by others?

I remained silent, for I knew the nature of secrets. They were whispered, hidden, sealed away – until lost in time.

But I would find this one. I suspected it was hiding somewhere between the triumvirate of Pope Paul VI, Maria, and the tall-man.