She had pleaded with him to stop drinking in town. And he agreed. He made a compromise. He brought the bags of stout home and uncorked them in the dining room and relaxed as well as if he was in the snug in Mannion’s.

He’d tell her all his little adventures. Everything that had happened since morning on the highways and byways of the country, as he went around attending to sick animals and their daft owners. He was fond of saying that in four out of five cases, a vet finds that the animal is in perfect health, whereas the farmer is completely mad.

Birdie doesn’t remember what he looked like. That is the worst thing about life as a widow. Not to be allowed say that she can’t remember what he looked like. That she sometimes forgets even the sound of his laughter or what kind of eyes he had. And sometimes she can’t even recognize him in the old photos.

The day she had the row with Betty, she told the whole thing to Alex the minute he came home. She told him almost everything. But she left out the last bit.

The last bit was when she was strapping Gussie into the carrier seat of her bicycle and Betty came to the door, holding the doorpost with her hand as if she might not have the breath to stand, and she cursed her. That’s what it felt like.

‘Go home now to your house, Bernie Waters, and dust your old fancy furniture, for maybe it’s all you’ll have at the end of the day. For you sure and certain won’t have many friends in this town.’

That’s not a very nice thing for Birdie to remember when she’s rummaging under the stairs, and wondering what she’s doing there, and racking her brains to remember what she might be looking for alone in the middle of the night, lost in the coats, and then sitting on the steps of the stairs wondering – what the hell did I come down for?

Not knowing. Not knowing. Not knowing. Even when the little Oxo box is sitting on her lap and staring her in the face. Still not knowing. OK, she came down for the Oxo box. But why? What did she want that for? She can’t remember.

That’s the curse you see. What Betty said wounded her. And she put it away with all the other hurtful things gathered up during a lifetime. Like a magpie, she stores things in her heart. Nurtures them and takes them out and goes over them again and again. It’s like counting spoons in a drawer.

Birdie always does her counting in the middle of the night, or very early in the morning when she can’t sleep.

She makes a great collection of sayings that have wounded her over the years. She can’t remember her husband’s face sometimes. But she can remember the wounds. The wounds that shaped her.

What about the porridge? That’s a good idea. A sudden idea. Into the kitchen she goes and puts the flakes in a bowl and then pours a cup of cold water over that and finally places the bowl in the microwave. It’s simple.