We had the lovely vinegary chips on our laps in the barn and we covered Serena’s schoolbooks and jotters with the last of the blue-rose wallpaper. Serena Bridget Johns, she got me to write on the books, The Nursery, St Patrick’s, Carncloon. My mother hadn’t even marked the day with an insult.

By Friday, Rosaleen Reilly had asked her to go for a sleepover with Nora – what we called going to stay at somebody’s house before America got involved. Just like Lizzie and me, they were inseparable after five days. It was the first night she would be out of Johns Farm since she was born, or out of my bed for that matter. Her excitement swept the lot of us up. Bridie had sewn her a pair of pink gingham pyjamas with a matching pink gingham teddy-bear pyjama case to put them in. She packed her toothbrush and agonised over whether or not Bosco and Blue Ted would cope without her for one night? I said they could both sleep in beside me and I’d explain: it would be for one night only and we’d all have to cope without her.

I got her to take her Cabbage Patch doll so that its weirdy face wouldn’t freak me out. Bridie was off to the bingo, the two of them talking about what to wear, two little birds twittering about what would be the Very Best Outfit for such an exciting excursion.

John Johns was outside clearing farming stuff off the back seat, like it was a Sunday. His mother always sat up front for the weekly trip to Sunday Mass, with the other two women in his life in the back. He pulled round to the door to save their shoes from the mud. Serena got in and sat still, looking straight ahead while John Johns mock-inspected her. She always had to be immaculate, not a hair out of place and with her shoes shining. They both loved that game and he always said A-plus before she giggled. Bridie got in and fussed around and then they both waved and waved like they were off to London to look at the Queen instead of the town ten miles away.

I waved and waved back as the street grew dark and I was left alone with just the trees for company. The caravan glowed yellow with the Tilley lamp; a few moths fluttered their dusty wings against the light. The house stood large and dark and empty, all white and grey and smelling of cut wood. I let myself in and wandered from room to room, my steps echoing. There were no rats, no ticking clock, no kettle singing on the range, no shouts of laughter from my girl or Bridie stirring tea. There was no pretend-husband stepping lightly. There was something, though, the slightest agitation of dust, and when I turned I saw her.