I washed my hair when Bridie was asleep and brushed it until it shone. I studied myself in the mirror as I put lipstick on, wiped it off, put it on again. I looked and felt ridiculous either way. John Johns would never care what I looked like and still I wished my hands weren’t red and raw. Had he discovered the whereabouts of the beautiful Catherine and sweet-talked his way back into her heart? Maybe she had kissed him? Maybe he had wrapped his big blunt fingers around her wrist and pulled her close? Would she still love how red his lips were?

Somewhere towards four o’clock he walked around the corner of the barn as if he had never been away. He was leaner and browner and his hair was long, down to his shoulders, and I stood looking at him on the street like a mug.

–  Hello, Mary.

–  John.

Thank God, at that moment Serena came bowling out of the house screaming for him. There was no shyness, no disbelief; she launched at him like she would never let him go as the string of gold tinsel she’d been playing with haloed around their heads in the wind. He hugged her to him and they danced about, only stopping long enough to let Bridie into the embrace. None of them thought to ask me in, though John caught my eye for a second before I flinched. The frown said it all: he still couldn’t stand me, I was a cross to bear, a bundle of nerves called Mary.

I stood aside and watched as an acid loneliness threatened to burn a hole from my stomach to my throat, a bystander. One day I’d be part of a family of my own making; it was only ever a question of biding time. For now, I was once again second on Serena’s list and Dada was home for good.

John Johns had made a pile of money in England, by working all the hours and practically starving himself. I heard him now and again laughing with Bridie as I skulked about. He had finally cured himself of egg and chips by eating it every bloody day for weeks at a time! He told her about the craic in Cricklewood – it was more Irish than Ireland – everybody shot to their feet for the Irish national anthem when the pubs closed and a hat was passed to collect funds for ‘the cause’ – Ireland couldn’t be set free for free! Any poor unfortunate English boys who didn’t want to donate would like as not get a good thumping as ‘Amhrán na bhFiann’ died away. I thought to myself, so we go over there and beat up lads because they come over here and beat up lads? It was a pot and kettle situation.