‘I suppose … I’ve no idea what though.’ My cheeks heat up and I switch to a safer subject. ‘I don’t suppose you know a good tree surgeon? The trees at the very back of our garden are blocking the sunlight quite early each evening.’

‘They’re not yours,’ Fran says, still whacking the brown grass.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The tallest trees – the ones that block the light – they’re in the garden behind yours.’

‘Oh.’

‘This goes way back to when the Murphys were here. The woman who lived behind them was called Ruth Cavanagh, and good God, she wasn’t a woman given to finding joy, but she got as close as she ever could when it came to those trees, and telling Robbie Murphy she wouldn’t top them.’

‘She sounds great craic.’

‘Ha. She was our local Miss Trunchbull. A retired school teacher whose favourite method of teaching was intimidation. The smaller kids thought she was a witch – people used to say she made poison out of foxgloves in her garden.’ Fran leans on the rake. ‘Always giving out, never more happy than when she was judging. You know the type. My pal Zara was her niece and Jesus, when she found out—’ Fran stops suddenly. ‘Anyway, not a very nice person.’

I nod. I’m guessing she’d been about to mention the Robbie-Zara-pregnancy rumour and I want to ask about it, but I can’t think of a way to do it without sounding gossipy. Instead, I ask her about Saturday night.

‘Oh – I saw you in The Wine Cask the other evening. I went over to say hi but I just missed you.’ Fran looks disconcerted all of a sudden and although I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, I find myself rushing to cover the awkwardness. ‘I love that we’re walking distance from The Wine Cask now, it’s nice to be able to leave the car at home and have a glass of wine.’

‘Indeed. Anyway, I need to get on,’ is all she says, before turning away and walking indoors.

16

June 1985

‘MORE TEA, FWAN-CES?’ LILY pushed the pink plastic teacup towards Fran’s mouth before she had time to reply – to say, I’m OK thanks, Lily, fourteen cups is my limit. How on earth did Mary ever get a minute’s peace? They were sitting on a bench, in the shadow of the huge evergreen trees at the end of the garden. Fran had made sure Lily was safely in the shade but had positioned the bench strategically, so that she could have her own legs in the sun. She needed a bit of colour before the J-1 summer. Americans, as everyone knew, were very tanned.

The day was still and the sky a deep denim blue, with not even the tops of the trees swaying, which was why the sudden crackle of twigs stood out, she supposed, when she thought about it afterwards.

A crackle, followed by a hurried rustling, then more cracking, as though someone had stepped on twigs, then done so again in their haste to retreat.