[...] Gerry was trying—and failing—to find work. It had been several months since his last job, and the boredom of enforced idleness made the hours hard to fill. He placed a few hopeful bets at the bookie's, killing time between races in a pub across the street. He took his pint with spiritless men, long unemployed, who sat on rough benches, drank from straight pint glasses of watery porter, reminisced, swore, spat in the sawdust, resignedly tore up losing tickets, and selected more runners from dogeared copies of the local paper.

Gerry rose from his seat. He'd had enough of the cramped room. The cigarette fug made his eyes water. He might as well go home. None of his horses had come in. [...] Gerry felt the unspoken, subdued feeling of his apprehension the moment he arrived home. His father, naturally inarticulate, was even less communicative.

“What's up, Da?”
“Yard's going to lay off more men.” No wonder the old man was tight-lipped. Liam, one of his younger brothers, had been given his cards last week.

“What about them bosses that went to London?”
“There's a rumour out they done no good.”
“Have you not seniority, Da?”

A derisive snort. “Served my time before you were born. Fat lot of good it'll do me if they close the graving dock.”

“Maybe the rumours is wrong?”
“Aye. Maybe.” Da's eyes held little hope.
The blow fell three days later.

“Twenty-seven fucking years at the Big Yard.” Da stood looking out the kitchen window, his back to Gerry. “D'you know that song, 'Belfast Mill'? '... I'm too old to work but I'm too young to die.' That's me, Gerry.” Da turned. “I'm not saying it's because I'm a Catholic but a brave few of the Protestants got kept on. I just don't know how we're going to get by.”

Gerry soon saw how strapped the family was. He tried desperately to find work. He and Da went down together on Friday to collect their dole. Da counted the few notes. “Ach, to hell with it, Gerry. Come on. I'll buy you a jar. Just the one.”

On the way to the pub they passed the army office. The recruiting poster still hung in the window. Gerry stopped and stared. “Come here a minute, Da.”

His father turned back. “What?”
“I could join up.”
“Not at all. England's always fought her wars on the backs of the Irish. Come on.”