Even next door’s kitty had abandoned her, it seemed. Sooty was another one who suited himself, Imelda thought crossly, divesting herself of her coat and hat and filling the kettle. He could feck off if he came to the door later, looking for food.

She leaned her elbows on the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, imagining the look on her children’s faces if she sent the text. They’d probably call her childish, Imelda acknowledged, sighing so deeply her breath fluttered the petals of her indoor cyclamen. Or, worse, that other term she’d read in an agony aunt’s letter recently . . . What was it again? She racked her brains, annoyed that she couldn’t think of it immediately. She hated not being as sharp as she once was. Passive-aggressive, that was it, she thought triumphantly. They’d say she was being passive-aggressive, which apparently was much worse than coming right out and saying things straight, which was her preferred method of dealing with something.

Keelin and her lot and Brigid were probably all down in the Four Winds, giving out about her right now. Or perhaps Brigid was sulking in her room while Keelin, Armand and Marie-Claire were holed up in the hotel, bad-mouthing Imelda over their cappuccinos or lattes or whatever fancy nonsense they called coffee these days. Well, bad scran to them, let them say and do what they liked. They could all go to hell in a handcart for all she was concerned.

Sundays were the days she missed Larry most, she thought sadly, admiring the daphne in all its pink and white glory, a winter jewel amongst the bare-branched trees and shrubs. Her husband would close the shop after the congregation from the ten-thirty Mass had bought their papers and ice cream and cream, the biggest sellers on Sunday mornings. He would come home, change out of his three-piece suit, and join her in the kitchen to prepare the Sunday lunch.

He would peel the potatoes and chop the vegetables while she made an apple tart or crumble, the smell of the roasting joint pervading the kitchen. He’d tell her who’d been in to the shop and if there was any news doing the rounds and, once she started making the gravy, he would drive off to collect their parents to bring them back for their much-looked-forward-to home-cooked meal.

After tea and a finger of home-made ginger cake had been served, later in the afternoon, Larry would drive their parents home, with a foil-wrapped dinner each for the next day. Keelin and the boys would have done the washing up and gone to meet friends, and Imelda would lie on the sofa, exhausted, and take a rare nap.