In wintertime, Larry would build up the fire and they would sit together companionably and read the papers and watch TV, or in spring, summer and autumn, they’d take a drive to the coast and walk along the beach enjoying the fresh salty air.

Larry was the only one who had accepted her the way she was, even with her sharp tongue and sense of injustice. He’d been a very understanding husband, but then, by the same token, she’d been very tolerant of him when she’d had to be. And that hadn’t been easy. After all the emotional upheaval brought on by his relationship with Fran Cassidy, there had been mostly affectionate companionship in the latter years of their marriage, until Keelin got pregnant, that she greatly missed.

Feeling in need of comfort, Imelda went into the small pantry off the kitchen and cut herself a thick slice of tea brack and slathered it with butter. Not great for her cholesterol, but she didn’t care anymore. If she died this minute, no one would give a damn, she thought bitterly, adding milk to her tea.

No one would weep for her like they’d wept for Larry. Such a strange disease, haemochromatosis, and so common to Ireland. He had succumbed to it when all it needed was for him to be monitored regularly by their GP. But no one knew that back then. At least nowadays there was a Haemochromatosis Society with up-to-date information.

She hadn’t known until she read it in the autopsy results that Larry had suffered from the illness. She’d blamed his heart attack on the stress of all that had gone on with their daughter. How bitterly they had fought over Keelin. But she’d argued back with every weapon in her armoury and, looking back on it now, she could see that his creeping illness had weakened him so much, he hadn’t been able to rally sufficiently, especially when she’d shot her parting arrow of bitterness, about Fran, that he had no answer for.

Even now, remembering the cruelty of her words brought tears of shame and regret to Imelda’s eyes and she sat at her kitchen table weeping.

*

‘Leave her up there to stew for a while, Felicity. She’s a bitter old pill and what she did to Brigid and Keelin at that party was unforgivable. If I’d have been there, I’d have lambasted her,’ Cormac growled, draining the steaming mushy peas.

‘Well then, I’m glad you weren’t.’ Felicity cut thick succulent slices of beef from the roast and set them on a plate for her mother-in-law. ‘There’s enough bad feeling in the family without you getting involved.’