Una was standing at the back door, resplendent in tailored black trousers and a scarlet silk, boat-neck top.

‘Well, don’t you look posh, Una,’ Imelda declared when the housekeeper greeted her.

‘And pretty glam you’re looking too, Imelda,’ Una laughed. ‘I love the outfit. That blue is a lovely colour on you.’

‘I got it in Brown Thomas.’ Imelda was immensely pleased with the compliment. She didn’t let on that she’d got her dress in the sale, for half price. ‘And I’m a great fan of the Radley handbags, so I treated myself to one.’ She held out her clutch for inspection.

‘How pretty,’ Una said, but her attention was elsewhere, having spotted Keelin behind Imelda’s daughter-in-law, Felicity. ‘Go on into the big parlour, Imelda,’ she said, ushering her in, leaving Imelda feeling she’d been dealt with and was now not even on Una’s radar. She followed her neighbours into the large, high-ceilinged room, filling up with nuns and other guests.

At one end an enormous table, decorated with sprigs of red-berried holly and trails of ivy, awaited the feast from the kitchen. Beside it, a smaller table held shiny glassware, plates, and cutlery wrapped in linen napkins. Of course the nuns wouldn’t use paper serviettes like the rest of them, Imelda thought, admiring the bushy, perfectly proportioned, decorated noble fir that dominated the bay window. The scent of fresh pine was lovely and she inhaled it appreciatively. A fire burned brightly in the grate, and the buzz of convivial conversation from guests seated on the old-fashioned chintz sofas, or standing in little knots chatting together, made Imelda feel unaccountably sad.

Oh why did I come? she thought wretchedly. She’d known all along that she’d hate it. This place brought back unhappy memories of the rows she’d had with Keelin, Brigid and Larry.

‘It’s Imelda, isn’t it? You’re Brigid’s sister. I’m Marie-Hélène. I remember you coming to visit once, before Keelin moved to Dublin.’ A bright-eyed, effervescent nun with a vaguely familiar face came and stood beside her.

‘That was a long time ago,’ Imelda remarked, glad of the opportunity to chat to someone.

‘It’s hard to believe so many years have passed, and Marie-Claire has turned thirty. Doesn’t time fly? I was not long out of the novitiate, that summer she was born. In fact, I was there for her birth. I’d been in a car crash and was sent down here to recuperate after my surgery. RM was so good to me. So kind. I can’t believe she’s retiring – and eighty to boot,’ Marie-Hélène said. ‘I can’t wait to see her face when she comes down and sees us all here.’

‘And when will that be?’ Imelda asked, glad of the change of subject.