‘Mam, stop that,’ Keelin said sharply. ‘Brigid is highly thought of by her congregation. She’s given a lifetime’s service to her Order. She deserves a bit of recognition for it.’

‘If we all got the recognition we deserved we’d be doing well,’ her mother retorted as the sound of the doorbell chimes sent her hurrying out into the hall.

‘I’m so glad you’re here, Marie-Claire,’ Keelin whispered. ‘She’s doing my head in. Brigid’s party is going between her and her sleep, she’s so annoyed about it. I swear to God, if it passes off without a hitch or a row, it will be a miracle.’

‘Ah it’s not that bad, surely,’ Marie-Claire soothed, biting into the rich cake and taking a mouthful of ‘proper’ tea. Her heart sank at her mother’s uncharacteristically stern words. She’d come home to Ireland looking for solace and landed in the middle of a family drama.

Imelda marched into the kitchen and plonked a beautifully arranged basket of flowers on the table. ‘The O’Neills want me to give this to Brigid. Who do they think I am . . . Interflora?’ she snapped, glowering at the thoughtful gift. ‘I got her fifty euros’ worth of savings certificates and she can like them or lump them. I’m going to make up the bed.’ She stomped out of the kitchen.

Marie-Claire giggled. ‘ “Interflora!” She’s a hoot when she’s mad,’ she whispered. ‘Why is she so annoyed at Mère?’

‘I have no idea, Marie-Claire. They’ve never got on, but it’s more Mam’s fault than Brigid’s. I don’t even think Brigid knows why. She doesn’t want to come to the party. I told her to stay at home and she said she wouldn’t have people talking about her. There’s no winning with her. Uncle John opened his big mouth and told her he has a great surprise for Brigid, so Mam’s curiosity is getting the better of her. That’s another reason she’s going. But if she upsets Brigid on her special day I won’t hold back. I’m fed up of this carry-on, and Mam’s walking on very thin ice with me.’ Keelin sat poker-straight, rigid with disapproval.

Marie-Claire refrained from comment. She’d heard the wheels of a car on the drive and shot out of her seat and put a finger to her lips and hid behind the kitchen door. Keelin grinned, hearing Armand call her name.

‘Am I blocking someone in the drive. Has Imelda got a visitor?’ he asked, walking into the kitchen and bending down to kiss his wife’s cheek.

‘She has, but I don’t think she’ll be going anywhere for a while, so you’re fine,’ Keelin said non-committally. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

‘I would. I’ll stick the kettle on,’ Armand said.

‘Let me do it, Papa,’ Marie-Claire offered, laughing.