‘Morning,’ she returned coolly. She didn’t like Sergeant Kenny. He was a nosy ould yoke who thought he was a cut above everyone and loved the deference showed to him. He was in her bridge club and always pontificating about something or other. He’d won the last two games they’d played against each other.

‘Doing your shopping?’ The Sergeant cast an eye over the contents of her trolley.

Imelda bristled. ‘Well you wouldn’t need to have gone to Trinity to get the answer to that,’ she said tartly. ‘And you’d want to cut out that ice cream and crumble stuff or your uniform won’t fit you, and the taxpayers will have to pay for another one.’

‘You’re quare cranky, Imelda,’ he scowled at her. ‘I was only trying to be polite.’

‘Hmmm,’ she sniffed. ‘I’ll see you at bridge.’ That gave him his answer, she thought smugly, rounding the corner to the next aisle. She would treat herself to a cup of coffee and a cream cake in the café adjoining the supermarket, she decided, looking forward to her treat.

The new café that Cormac had added on was doing a roaring trade. She was lucky to get a seat. It was astonishing that having breakfast out had become such a thing, she thought, watching a couple at the table next to her tucking into an enormous fry.

She was proud of her son, immensely proud, though she couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt when she remembered how much he had wanted to study architecture until she’d browbeaten and emotionally blackmailed him to take on the family business. Peter had gone out to Australia when he’d left school, determined to make a life for himself abroad. He had no interest either, in taking over the supermarket.

She’d done to Cormac what had been done to her, Imelda realized with a shock. How come she’d never thought of it like that before? He had been the one left to shoulder the family burden. Keelin, like Brigid, Sean, and Peter had taken off, getting as far away as they possibly could to escape the binding ties of home.

Had she ever thanked her son properly for the sacrifice he’d made? Not really, she thought ruefully, biting into her cream cake. She’d never actually put into words that she was grateful and proud. Her thanks would be the leaving of the business to him and the index-linked stash in her savings account at the bank.

She heard a woman laugh. A hearty, smile-inducing laugh, behind her, and it reminded her of someone. But who? Her brow went to furrow but could not because of the Botox. Marie-Claire, that was who it sounded like. Her granddaughter had a great sense of humour. Imelda smiled, before remembering that she wasn’t speaking to Marie-Claire.