Della Burke, just ahead of Mary in the queue, leaned back to whisper in her ear. ‘Did you see the state of Tom Stedman with herself, at Lily’s party?’ She nodded back towards Cynthia.

Mary smiled. ‘I’m sure it’s harmless. Tom’s devoted to Susie, beneath all that flirting.’

‘Oh, I know, but that girl Cynthia is trouble. If you were Ines O’Brien, would you head off on your travels leaving someone like her practically living in your house?’ She nudged Mary. ‘Sorry, forgot you’re married to a saint.’

If only you knew, Mary thought, but kept her smile in place. ‘She’s not sleeping over in the O’Briens’ though, she just does a few hours in the afternoon. I think she has another job too; she’s always rushing off whenever she babysits Lily.’

‘Fair enough. Anyway, don’t say you heard it from me, but apparently, Ines and Victor sleep in separate bedrooms. Cynthia told Susie and Susie told me.’

Mary shook her head, more at the casual sharing of gossip than the O’Briens’ sleeping arrangements. Dear God, nothing was sacred with Cynthia snooping around all their houses.

Two other women joined the queue, both wearing sunhats to shield their eyes. None of them ever wore sunglasses, none except Mary, and she knew what they thought about that. That woman, she thinks she is in Hollywood, she’d heard Ines say once, when she didn’t know Mary could hear. Ines didn’t like her. That was OK, Mary didn’t really mind, though she sometimes wondered if Ines minded how much time her daughter Cora spent looking after Lily instead of playing with kids her own age.

So, the Rowanbrook women carried on squinting and Mary carried on wearing her sunglasses. Now, she pushed them up the bridge of her nose, and twisted her hair into a bun, for relief from the heat.

‘Excuse me!’

Mary and Della turned towards the owner of the voice. Ruth Cavanagh was standing outside her house, glaring over at the queue for the ice cream van.

‘Us?’ Della’s translucent eyebrows rose towards her hairline.

‘I want a word with you,’ Ruth snapped, beckoning them over.

‘I’ll mind Lily, you go,’ Della said with an eye-roll. ‘I dealt with the drama about the bins, it’s your turn.’

Mary grimaced, and leaving Lily in the queue with Della, she walked towards their neighbour. Ruth was standing in her driveway, hands on hips, dressed all in grey: a grey blouse, a stiff grey skirt that looked like a school uniform, and even grey gardening gloves. Her old red Micra and a burst of purple foxgloves added the only dash of colour.

‘Are you OK, Ruth?’ Mary asked.

‘I’m certainly not OK. Someone has thrown a stone at one of my back windows.’

‘Oh, gosh, is it broken?’

‘Yes, it’s broken, and I can’t get a glazier out, so I’ve had to tape cardboard to it. All because parents around here can’t keep their children under control and the schools are afraid to say boo. I can tell you, in my day, the nuns wouldn’t have let them get away with any of it. The threat of a crack from a ruler is what children need,’ she said, with an emphatic nod.