Over the next couple of weeks Eileen took Murt for drives. They went to Enniscrone beach and stood on a dune crest and watched the Atlantic gather in long, wobbling furrows and smack on to the shore. Eileen took Murt to the dole to sign on, took him to the cineplex to watch the feature they mutually adjudged the ­dumbest-­looking, took him to the pharmacist for his refills, into town for new shoes. Christmas came and went. Eileen gave Murt a Jack & Jones shirt of grey denim.

One day Murt rang her for a change, and Eileen’s body braced as if she were a passenger in a swerving car.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Murt said.

‘Yeah?’ Eileen croaked.

‘Jamie’s got that Duane one pregnant.’

‘Oh, Lord,’ Eileen said.

‘Nuge is taking us out tonight for drinks. I thought maybe.’

‘I’ll see,’ Eileen said.

‘If you wanted,’ Murt said.

‘No, I’ll see,’ Eileen said. ‘I just might need to switch a shift around.’

When Eileen walked into Kennedy’s she found Nugent, Murt, Jamie and Sara at the very back of the lounge. Breedge, Murt and Jamie’s mother, was there too. She was a ­white-­haired and thin woman, seated securely between her sons, the way a mother has every right to be.

‘Congratulations,’ Eileen blurted, at everyone.

Sara stood up, took in a big breath, exhaled. ‘This is mad,’ she said, and hugged Eileen, something like delirium in the whites of her eyes. Jamie absently lifted a leg to let Sara sit back down beside him. Eileen looked at Murt, handsome in the shirt she’d got him, a hand on the little mound of his paunch as if he were the one who was pregnant. At the very end of the table Nugent was already rising.

‘Sit down, Eileen, and I will get you a drink.’

‘Sure I’ll get one myself.’

‘You will not,’ Nugent said. ‘What do you drink?’ He looked at Murt. ‘What does she drink?’

‘Stop, a gin and tonic so,’ Eileen said.

‘Good girl.’

‘Hello, Eileen,’ Breedge said.

‘Hello.’

‘Can you believe this?’

‘I can’t!’

‘This is some arrangement. What was it you used to always say, Jamie, about having kids?’ Breedge said, looking sidelong at her son.

‘I used to always say you should need a licence,’ Jamie said.

‘And now look,’ Breedge said. ‘See how it happens. It just happens, Jamie.’

‘I stand by the principle,’ Jamie said.

‘Well, it’s happened now, and that’s that,’ Breedge said. She had long fingers with ­smashed-­looking knuckles. The way her hands wreathed her drink made Eileen think of the roots of trees that crack out of and then fuse with the pavement.

‘It all’s going on,’ Breedge said. ‘It just keeps barrelling ahead.’

‘I’m guessing this would be life you’re talking about, Mother,’ Jamie said.

‘You. A daddy. I don’t know,’ Breedge said. ‘What do you think, Eileen?’