Daddy wouldn’t stand for me being left down here to rot. I would promise him that I wouldn’t be seen or heard and this time, this time he would stand his ground. After all, he was the man of the house. Mary’s come home, he’d say. I’d hide behind his back while she banged the frying pan on the range in fury at his impudence. This is where she belongs, he’d say, and that would be the end of it. I’d be home and he’d look after me; he wouldn’t let her hurt me any more. Mary is not to be hit again, he’d say. Mary’s been hit enough. Yes, yes, Daddy would make it better. I’d get through that first night on my sliver of hope that I would step back into my life one day.

The Lower Room was what would be the living room in a normal house, the Good Room, like the Good Room where we kept the framed reminders of our sacraments at home. It had a flowery sofa, covered in huge burgundy flowers, a sort of rose or peony maybe, and it smelt damp. There was also a brown leather chair that was a match for the sofa in the kitchen, but which had split open to show its horsehair stuffing, and a heavy wooden wardrobe with an oval mirror running the full length of it. The walls were painted brown to waist height, cream on top.

The ceiling was painted wooden boards that might have been white at some stage but were now faded to grey with smoke stains. Several large holes told the truth that there were rats living up there. There were windows at either side of the room, one looking out to the orchard at the back, one looking on to the street. The back window had a rose bush growing too close and the thorns hit the pane and screeched and scratched when the wind blew. As I stood there, a fall of soft rain started a gentle drum on the red tin roof.

On the back wall, a makeshift bed had been set up. It was behind a clothes horse that had an old cream blanket edged with blue hung over it. The bed was just a base; it would seem that John Johns had made it from rough wood he must have had lying around the place. The fact that he had prepared for me made me rage inside. Who makes a bed before speaking to the bride? The mattress was brand new, covered with linen sheets folded neatly back. A stained feather pillow in striped black and brown was sticking out of the clean pillowcase. There were at least three blankets on it and one of Bridie’s quilts.