Mrs Sullivan, or Angela Martin as I know her as she was only a few years older than me at school, is the third Mrs Sullivan to run this place for as far back as I remember. She greets me shyly, a bit nervous as most people are around us city types who left Loughisland for wider shores, but she soon relaxes when we start chatting like I’ve never been away at all.

‘He’s doing so well,’ she tells me, wiping her hands on a brown and white tea towel. Nothing in here has changed a bit. The old chocolate-coloured stools at the bar are the same with their black metal legs that I used to have to climb up to reach my seat when Daddy and I would slip in here on a Saturday afternoon for a sneaky bet on the horses. I’d be fed Tayto Cheese & Onion crisps and bribed with a glass of Fanta while he chugged down a quick pint of the black stuff and prayed that his luck would come in.

‘I think working here can only be good for him,’ I say to Angela. ‘We’re worried sick for him, to be honest, but thanks to you and your family for giving him this chance.’

‘You know he wants to start a folk club?’ she says, as if she’s telling me she’s won the lottery. ‘Now, that’s a good sign! He’s showing an interest in music again at long last. Your mother is thrilled!’

We keep our voices down as the open hatch that adjoins the bar to the shop means noise can travel, but we don’t get to chat any further as just then Matthew makes his way in and joins me.

‘Have you ordered?’ he asks. ‘Have what you like, it’s my treat.’

He seems so chirpy and excited, which now all makes sense. The folk club here in the village, the job in the shop and whatever this Christmas surprise for Mam is. I dread the thought of bursting his bubble when I get round to mentioning Tom, but maybe, who knows, it could be good timing if he’s other more positive things on his mind.

‘I’ll have a gin and tonic,’ I say to Angela. ‘What are you having, Matthew?’

‘The usual,’ he says to Angela. ‘And don’t be expecting any fancy berries or glasses like goldfish bowls in here, Charlotte. A gin and tonic is a gin and tonic in Loughisland, not a bowl of mixed fruit.’

He laughs at his own joke and Angela pretends to be offended.

‘The original and the best,’ I say to them both and soon we are clinking our glasses together in true Christmas spirit. ‘So, what is it you want to tell me? It’s good news, I take it?’

Matthew sits up straight on the stool. ‘I thought, well it just came to me yesterday before I rang you …’