Things did not change and Mary knew they never would. There was nothing special about Malcolm’s kitchen, and she concluded resignedly that, whatever its size, a kitchen was a kitchen and the stage upon which her life’s dramas were doomed to play out.

‘There’s no one else on these streets who has a son for a priest or a daughter for a nun,’ her mother had begged. ‘Try harder to see a way, Mary.’

Mary’s taking the veil would bestow upon Deirdre a degree of respectability, an elevated position that she could achieve by no other means. Not by money or birth, or influence. Deirdre would become the mother of a nun and there was no greater status to be achieved on the four streets.

‘I hope if our Mary does take the veil, someone writes to Ireland and tells Maura Doherty! That’ll put her nose right out of joint,’ she had said to Biddy, who kept a close eye on Mary. With no succour from Biddy, no endorsement of her plans, Deirdre played the same tune to her husband Eugene, who was equally ambivalent. Eugene was a beaten man, mild-mannered, afraid to express an opinion in his own house, so he simply said, ‘She’s a good girl, is our Mary; she will do what’s right.’

On the rare occasion she was alone with her da, Mary would plead for his help. ‘Da, tell Mam I don’t want to take the veil – and if I did, the money Sister pays me would stop.’ Mary was paid five shillings for her kitchen toils and she handed every penny over to Deirdre.

Eugene would fold his paper, lay it on his knee, rub his chin and reply, ‘The thing is, queen, your mam sees a way here to get one over on Maura Doherty, who always lorded it over her when we got here, from back home. Queen of the four streets was Maura. You keep working in the kitchens and just say no, if Sister asks you about your devotion. Be polite, mind, and it will all pass, you’ll see.’

In the end, it was Biddy who came to her rescue. When Biddy told Deirdre about Malcolm needing help and the extra money Mary would earn, Deirdre, with Sister Evangelista’s blessing, reluctantly let her go. And now the Seaman’s Stop was to be her salvation, not the veil as Deirdre had hoped. Mary and her red, chapped and work-worn hands had travelled from her mother’s kitchen to the convent kitchen and now to Malcolm’s kitchen – and she wasn’t yet eighteen. She flopped down onto the still-warm chair vacated by Biddy. Leaning forward, she placed her head in her hands and rubbed her eyes.

‘Oh Jimmy, where are you?’ she said.