‘You had everything I ever wanted. A husband. Children. A home of your own. For years all I had was a lonely cell and a bed with a hard mattress and a burden of guilt that I wasn’t a real nun like I should have been, that I was in the convent under false pretences—’

‘Because you had sex with Johnny Larkin—’ Imelda interrupted.

‘Yes . . . although, in my own defence, I did tell him no. Nowadays they would say consent wasn’t given. Perhaps I didn’t fight hard enough. I did try and push him away but he was very strong, and then it was all very rushed. Over almost before I knew it. So the loss of my virginity was not the way I expected it would be. Not like the movies, for sure,’ she said wryly. ‘I know it’s all very different for you, Marie-Claire. You young women embrace your sexuality. There’s no shame involved like there was when we were young.’

‘Thankfully no, I was lucky never to feel shame about having sex, and my first time was enjoyable because I was with a boy who was gentle and anxious for it to be good for me, and I wasn’t afraid of getting pregnant because my parents were sensible and gave me a good sex education.’ She flashed a grateful smile at Keelin. ‘I could talk to them about anything. But, having said that, for me the best sex was when I felt loved.’

‘Was?’ Imelda noticed the use of the past tense and pounced. ‘What about that fella you’re going with? I thought that was going places.’

‘So did I,’ Marie-Claire said lightly. ‘But it’s over. I didn’t say anything to you because of what was going on.’

‘And did you end it or did he end it?’ Imelda probed.

‘I did. I . . . er . . . I discovered he was cheating on me.’ To Marie-Claire’s dismay a lump rose to her throat and tears blurred her eyes. Marc had sent her a text the previous night pleading with her to contact him. She’d texted back saying that she was mostly out of coverage in the wilds of Scotland and she’d phone him when she got home. She’d spent the night listening to her mother’s gentle breathing, in the other bed, while trying to suppress her sobs of grief and loneliness.

‘Ah the . . . the . . . bastard,’ Imelda cursed, something she rarely did unless greatly provoked. ‘He’s not worthy of you, Marie-Claire. Don’t waste your tears on him, the sly weasel,’ she counselled, standing up to go and put her arms around her granddaughter in an uncharacteristic display of grandmotherly solidarity – much to Keelin’s surprise. Imelda was not given to overly affectionate behaviour.