‘Wasn’t even a baby,’ Michaela shouted out after him, far enough out of earshot, but conscious of her mother’s hurt. Niquita kissed her mother and said, ‘I’m so sorry, Mammy, I just taut he’d help us, I was just sad for the baby being gone … and,’ she paused, ‘… well, I missed him.’

‘I know, love, but try ta put it out of yar head now, ya need ta get on with life. I know that’s easier said than done, but Jonathan O’Keefe is a bad sort, didn’t I promise you this? Ya should’a kept your mouth closed like I begged. See, it might be harder on ye both now, but it’ll be OK, yar father never solved any problem, you should know that, love. He only made them.’

They opened some Kimberley biscuits, the ones individually wrapped that you get at Christmas, with the thick chocolate, and slowly peeled the black-and-purple wrappers off. Michaela came over offering me one and I smiled with my lips pursed tightly, like you’d do at a funeral. I’m-sorry pursing. I took a chocolate biscuit, as it would have been impolite and awkward not to. She took my wrapper off for me, and unpeeled one for Alex too, and she shared one with Jane by lobbing it on her bed, unopened, afraid to go too close.

Mammy was awake again, and that was all that mattered.

I held the chocolate biscuit until it melted in my hand.

‘I’m just going to head and heat this up,’ Alex said, quietly, carrying the takeout bag away.

Chapter 21

‘Shit, you OK?’ I said. Margaret Rose was combing her hair when all her visitors had left for chips.

‘Ah, look, loveen, these things happens, I’ll be fine.’

‘Sure?’

‘Ah. I’ve been through worse. I’m just glad really he’s back, and … in one piece. Look it, what can I say … sure yar husband is yar husband and as well him as another, or so they say. I canny remember who said that, but there’s a lot of truth in it.’

I nodded, though she didn’t seem convinced, or seemed desperate to convince herself.

‘I’ll always take Paddy back, because he’s mine, ya know?’ she said. ‘And …’ she hesitated, ‘I made a solemn promise in front of God.’

‘Yes,’ Jane said, thumbing the wrapper, trying to open her biscuit. ‘Yes, you did. Promise in front of God. Like me.’

It was bleak. But true. True to them both.

Margaret Rose got up out of bed, and rummaged underneath. She lifted a large Tesco bag for life and came over to me, dropping it on my bed.

‘Just a few things, tide ya over. Got wan of me own lads ta sort it far ya. My boys are good, ya know?’

‘I know,’ I said.

Maybe it made her a little more comforted, at my isolation, perhaps. My self-imposed isolation. Two jars of apple drops, three naggins of vodka, because, though not a drinker herself, she couldn’t say the same about me from the amount of times I went on about it.