‘You OK?’ Armand looked over at her, the expression in his brown eyes kind and loving as ever. ‘Are you thinking of your father?’

‘How did you know?’ she smiled back at him.

‘I know you.’ He reached across and squeezed her hand.

‘I’m so glad you got to meet him,’ Keelin sighed.

‘I’m glad too. I had and have a lot to thank him for.’

‘Me too,’ Keelin sighed. ‘He was as good a father to me as you are to Marie-Claire.’

‘High praise for me,’ her husband said, expertly avoiding a pothole the size of a mini volcano crater as the winding road narrowed the further west they drove.

The pale wintery lemon sun flashed dazzling rays between the bare hedgerows and naked-branched trees. Keelin was glad she wasn’t driving. The sun had been low in the sky, heading west, blinding in spots, but once they hit the Midlands, the fields shrouded in wisps of fine misty fog had an ethereal feel. The countryside was resting, deep in winter’s grip. So Celtic, so druidic, she’d thought, relishing the energy of her homeland. Now, as they neared the west coast and home, the sun made an appearance again, dappling the bare grey hedgerows with sunlight.

Imelda had sounded tetchy on the phone when she had called her the previous day. Keelin knew it was because of Brigid’s upcoming party. Her mother was annoyed because Keelin and Armand would be breaking their holiday with her to travel south to stay with Brigid for a few days.

The bond between Keelin and her aunt was strong, and enduring because of what they had been through together. Imelda could not help but feel jealous, even though Keelin tried hard to be as loving and kind as possible to her mother and give her no cause to fret about their own relationship.

What could have happened to set off such resentment, Keelin wondered, as she always did when she thought about the relationship between Imelda and Brigid.