The parish hall was bare apart from a long table hung with a brown gingham cloth. The sandwiches all had lettuce, even the tinned salmon. A tower of butterfly cakes quivered in the cold. The faded brown velvet curtains on the empty stage were tied back with a tasselled brown rope so we could enjoy the single vase of cheerless flowers standing there. Mrs Byrne got the party started by cranking up the urn and trying not to look like she’d die of happiness.

Auntie Eileen’s eyes were glazed open and her smile was nailed on; Bernie looked upset, ever sensitive to moods. Kathleen stuck close to both of them. John Johns went over to talk to them and Bernie flung her arms around him. He hugged her back and kissed the top of her head. If she but knew it, she had just outstripped every woman in the room except me. My hideous aunts told me how lucky I was to land such a handsome man. Somehow I had become someone who other people patted. You look lovely, grand, pat, pat, pat.

A photograph was taken of the whole group, then one of me and him standing side by side, close enough to have our wedding suits touch, one of me and him with Bridie between us, but when it came to me and him and Mammy and Daddy, I walked away and sat down. Bernie jumped up and got into the photo so for evermore, amen, Mammy would have a shot of herself looking at Bernie in total disgust. John linked arms with her and told the photographer to go ahead. Bernie beamed her biggest smile and Eileen finally laughed.

Alright? says Mick. ‘Alright’ didn’t really touch it. Poor Mick! This awful afternoon wasn’t good for his nerves. I hated that I had upset him. He was holding a cup on a saucer like it was a chalice.

–  Don’t cry, Mary. Please, for God’s sake, don’t cry.

–  How am I goin’ to get out of this, Mick? How?

–  This’ll blow over. John Johns is a decent fellah to do this. At least it’ll get you out of the doghouse now that you’re legal and all?

–  As long as I can get back to school, I don’t care so much!

–  Ah, Mary! You always did love the auld books!

Mick was trying to wipe a load of black eyeliner off me when John Johns came over. He’s my husband, I thought to myself, but I’m not his wife, not now, not ever, so help me Good Holy God and His Virgin Mother.

–  We’d better make a move. There’s a ceilidh here tonight.