I think of how my mother went round the whole village telling everyone who would listen that my name would be in the paper on the graduation list of honours and how she showed my photo to everyone who came into our modest home.

I think of how they saved their hard-earned cash to put me and my two siblings through a third-level education, of how much time and effort they put into Matthew’s music and of how my family is bursting with more talent and have more soul than the woman in front of me will ever know.

I think of how I got my first job in St Patrick’s and how the principal heaped praise on me at every turnaround, mostly for my music, and how I proud I was to finally make my mark in my family when I’d to follow in such fine footsteps as my big brother and sister.

How dare she hire me for a name I married in to? What an insult to me, my family and my whole being!

Then Jack’s words come back to me. I hear his supportive voice in my mind.

Tell her to shove her job where the sun doesn’t shine if she ever bullies you again, I mean it. You’re better than that. You’re Charlotte Taylor from Loughisland and I love you. Everyone loves you. Don’t ever let her bring you down.

She puts on her glasses, shooting me a glance of disdain.

‘You can go back to class now,’ she says, looking at her computer screen now. She lifts a file and stretches her arm out towards me, without looking my direction. ‘Can you give these to Rosemary at reception on your way past? Actually, never mind, I’ll do it myself.’

I clear my throat.

‘I haven’t finished,’ I say to her, my knees actually knocking under this horrible straight navy skirt I bought just to try and fit into her ridiculous, boring dress code.

‘I beg your pardon?’ she says, taking her glasses off again. Her eyes meet mine.

‘I said, I haven’t finished,’ I repeat.

Here I go.

‘You know, for such an educated woman, you sure do lack soul, as does this excuse for a school you are running,’ I tell her. ‘So, you can stuff your job, stuff your “ings” and your ridiculous standards and your skinny stiff upper lip, Miss Jean Brady!’

‘Mrs Malone!’