Marjorie looks around, trying desperately to get another jibe in before she leaves but she’s struggling as there really isn’t a lot to ridicule around here. The staff are a delight, always greeting us by name and making us so welcome to the community, as are the nearby villagers who have gone way beyond the call of duty to let us know where they are if we need anything. Everyone we met on our short walk down the hill to the pub had a smile and a wave, which is a far cry from the anonymous city life that Marjorie is used to. It’s killing her not to have anything negative to say, I just know it. I’m so glad she is leaving. Truth is, I can’t bloody stand her and never could.

‘Early start tomorrow?’ she says to me as she puts her Burberry clutch bag under her arm. ‘I’m sure the children are much more disciplined at Holy Trinity than they were at St Patrick’s. Much easier on the head after a busy weekend, yeah?’

Boom, she got me after all. Boy, I’m so glad to see her go.

‘She reminds me of the parents at school,’ I tell Jack as we stroll back up the hill towards the cottage over an hour later, our hangover well settled with the hair of the dog. ‘Always looking down on me, always reminding me how I’m not one of them. I’m different, I’m working class, I don’t really belong but they’re giving me a chance to try and fit in because of …’

He stops in his tracks.

‘Because of me?’ he says, looking very offended.

‘Yes. Because of you and your family,’ I tell him. ‘They accept me, or tolerate me should I say, because of the fact I’m Doctor Jack Malone’s wife. There’s no way I’d have even got an interview at Holy Trinity had I still been plain old Charlotte Taylor who grew up in Loughisland on a housing estate and you know it, Jack.’

He shakes his head, his forehead creased into a furrow. ‘No, Charlotte, please don’t ever say that!’ he pleads with me. ‘You got the job in Holy Trinity because you were the best candidate for it, not because of anything to do with me or my parents. Don’t think that way, it’s not true.’

I may be a little tipsier than I thought because I can’t stop now. I’m on a roll.

‘I hate it there, Jack,’ I say, falling into his chest now. ‘I totally hate it and I’d give anything to be back in St Patrick’s singing my songs to children who appreciate me, instead of stuck-up little brats who would rather give snide comments on my clothes than show me some respect. I hate it.’