‘Mike, have you not finished there yet?’ A tall girl with her hair tied back in a red scarf was coming towards them, all efficiency and purpose. ‘Leave those, will you? I told one of the others to take over the tables. I need you out at the door.’

‘This is Sarah,’ Mike said. ‘She’s new, just volunteered for tonight. Sarah – Cathy.’

‘Hi.’ Cathy’s smile was perfunctory. ‘They need someone in the kitchen. It’s bedlam in there. Can you cook?’

Sarah felt panic rising. Cook? She had never needed to cook until she came to Dublin. Living in a flat with your brother had been a basic domestic training of sorts. But cook for a crowd?

‘No. Not really. But I could serve at the tables, or talk to people—’

‘I’m sure you can peel potatoes? Good. The kitchen’s through that door.’

Peeling potatoes was not a skill Sarah had learned in Kenya either, but Cathy had already taken Mike’s arm and led him away. At the kitchen door she hovered uncertainly until a stout, middle-aged woman called to her from the sink.

‘Thanks for coming, love. Here’s a bucket of spuds – just scrub them. Don’t bother peeling. We’ll boil them in their skins.’ She looked Sarah over. ‘Janey mackerel! You’d better try and find something to cover your dress – it’s far too swish for this job. Sure, you’re not out to a dance, you know!’

Sarah flushed. Stupid, stupid! She had put on her smartest clothes as a mark of respect for the diners she had expected to serve. But it looked more like she was showing off. Well, she would know the next time. She found a tea towel, wrapped it around her waist and set to work with the scrubber. The kitchen grew hot and steamy as the evening wore on and she sliced carrots, washed saucepans and scraped down the roasting tins and the gravy pans. Her cheeks glowed red and her carefully arranged hair rose in a frizzy halo above her forehead. She hauled vats of potatoes and vegetables from the cooker to the kitchen table and spooned them on to serving dishes. Then it was back to the sink and the greasy saucepans and platters.