Biddy could see that Ena was under the dryer and Deirdre Malone was sitting on the pink seat with a towel around her shoulders. When the bell jangled out over the shop door as Biddy opened it, the smell of perming solution and hair spray assailed her nostrils as she called out, ‘How’s our Mary doing?’

Cindy placed her fingers over her lips. ‘Sshh,’ and pointed to Ena, who was fast asleep under the dryer, head back, mouth open, top teeth hanging down.

‘She will fit in just fine,’ said Biddy, in a whisper, ‘and I’ve no doubt she’ll enjoy the extra money.’

‘Do you want an appointment, Biddy?’ asked Cindy, opening the book. And then, dropping her voice even further, ‘I don’t suppose Malcolm has heard anything from Captain Conor? Poor Ena is out of her mind.’ Cindy nodded towards Ena. ‘She hasn’t heard from him for months.’

Biddy shook her head. ‘Malcolm has just sent a telegram thingy. With a bit of luck we should hear something soon.’

Malcolm, heading towards the café, felt good. The clouds had dispersed, the threat of rain had gone, Mary had come to work for him, the sun might just be here to stay, Captain Conor would know he was needed and sail in – everything was going to be just fine.

Chapter Seven

Tommy poured the drinks whilst Maura slipped the paper knife into the top of the blue airmail letters and laid them flat on the top of the table, smoothing them out with the palms of her hands, wondering which one to read first.

‘Let’s be starting with Sister Evangelista, shall we?’ she said. Tommy saw the look of pleasure and anticipation on Maura’s face as she scanned the pale blue paper. It made him feel happy and it struck him that the letters from home gave them almost too much pleasure and highlighted how little of note happened in their daily lives.

‘Well, imagine, Sister says they are choosing the Dock Queen attendants for the carnival this week, and she says that if Angela was at the school still, she would definitely have been chosen for the chief one, given how much effort she had put into controlling her temper of late. Well, I never, wouldn’t Angela just have been delighted?’ She couldn’t help the disappointment creeping into her voice and looked towards Tommy.

‘Don’t,’ said Tommy as he pulled the stopper from the top of the whiskey bottle and began to pour it into the glass. ‘And don’t be telling our Angela neither,’ he said. ‘She hates this bloody school she’s in – and I swear to God, that effort to control her temper was short-lived. She’s done nothing but complain since we moved here.’