‘Ok, young one?’

Jimmy is standing in front of me, his arms outstretched. I move into his circling arms, head pressed against his chest.

‘Now, we have one last goodbye.’

‘Not sure I’m able.’

‘What about the promise you made to your little boy? The little tabby?’

‘Don’t think so, not right now.’

‘No more broken promises, Sonya.’

‘We’ll come get her another time.’

‘By then it might be too late. She’ll be wild. You have to do this, for your boy. Good for you to have a little creature on the outside. It won’t be easy, the first few weeks…’

He takes me by the hand, gripping it firmly. I feel Sister Anne’s eyes following us. We leave via the front door and the receptionist is someone I’ve never seen before. I wonder where Ms Bookworm is. I hope she’s living her life.

‘Nice day, all the same,’ Jimmy says, for something to say.

And it is. A November-fest of reds, ambers, rusts. The leaves are golden in this light.

The guys are standing outside the shed, smoking, their grey faces lifted towards the sun like withered plants. Jimmy goes inside and I follow, my eyes struggling to adjust to the gloom.

‘There she is, hiding, under the bench.’

‘Ah no, Jimmy. This is far too traumatic for her. Leave her with her tribe.’

‘You’ll give her a great life. She’ll have a new family, settle in in no time.’

The tabby is lifted by the scruff of her neck, squealing and clawing at the air.

‘Here…’ He thrusts the kitten at me; I hold her against my heart. ‘Ok, little one. We’re going to take very good care of you.’ The cat seems to relax in my arms, purr a little.

Something seems to have shifted in the cat’s bearing, much as it has in mine.

‘Remember, Sonya, breathe, pause, practise patience. Patience is where it’s at.’

‘Sonya Moriarty to reception, Sonya Moriarty.’ My name is called on the tannoy, well articulated by the new girl, who sounds like she’s had speech and drama lessons. I should set her straight.

‘Someone here to collect you, then. That’s good,’ Jimmy says. ‘I’m going to say my byes here… Go on, now, get. And remember to eat, and feed that little girl, will ya?’ I go to kiss him on the cheek, but he moves away. ‘See you around so.’ He’s on the ground, head stuck under a bench, inspecting the remaining kittens.

‘Bye, Jimmy, and thanks.’

He grunts.

I move slowly across the grounds, feeling as if I’m pushing against an invisible weight. Drag my trainers along the concrete, scuffing them, like Tommy.

My father’s sitting on the bench inside the front door, his face hidden behind a copy of the Irish Times. I watch him, the receptionist watching me, before the paper twitches and lowers. ‘Hello, Sonya’ – as if this were just a normal, everyday occurrence, as if he saw his daughter every Sunday for a brunch and catch-up. ‘You look good.’ He stands. ‘Where are your bags?’