Matty sat at the end of one sofa in the living room, fists bunched. There was a black-and-white TV on in the corner with a kids’ quiz show on, the presenter’s voice loud and garish. Carly, Matty’s cousin, was sitting at the edge of a small, ornate sofa opposite, her posture formal. A little girl was on the floor, teasing a small, short-haired terrier with a woollen rat.

‘I knew it almost as soon as I saw you,’ said Maureen, coming in. ‘You’re the spit of him.’ Her voice was matter-of-fact, almost robotic. ‘I thought you were a boy.’ She put the baby unceremoniously down onto the blankets at the other end of the sofa and stood, one hand on a hip. Scrutinising. ‘What age will you be now?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘Well, that says it all. Sweet Mary, but it speeds by.’ There was the sound of the kettle and she disappeared back into the kitchen.

Carly was still staring, making the strange gratification of resembling Joe evaporate. She had on a knitted jumper with the word HERO on the front in large letters, her jeans tight and ripped in perfect symmetry. She was heavily made-up and her hair was piled dramatically on top of her head, as if she was from the nineteenth century.

‘How old is? …’ A gesture to the baby, who was in an old-fashioned white dress and had a bright pink bow clipped in the little hair she had. Cream woollen tights and tiny stud earrings.

‘Eleven months.’

The little girl on the floor suddenly stood up and the dog growled.

‘And Jessie’s three in a month, aren’t you?’ The way Carly said it made it obvious they were hers. She couldn’t have been more than twenty.

The girl shouted ‘Yes!’ and then ran out of the room. The dog followed.

It was quieter without them. The baby, propped up by cushions, sighed and put a fist in her mouth, sucking rhythmically.

The room was cluttered. Two display cabinets held crockery, and there was a faux-marble table crammed with religious baubles – two glass candleholders with a haloed Jesus on them, and a statue of a saint, his neck laden with rosaries.

‘Can’t believe I’ve never met you,’ Carly said, brightly and with a faint hint of aggression. ‘I’ve got more cousins than I can count on the other side.’

Maureen came back in with a tray. The cups had four-leaved clovers on them. ‘Well, now.’ She had large circular earrings, black artificial feathers hanging from them, dreamcatcher-style. A shiny padded jacket with emerald shoulders and fur-lined slippers. She looked at Matty, as if trying to decide what to say first. ‘How’s your mother?’

On another table next to her, leaning on a sequinned vase of fake flowers, there was a painting of the Virgin Mary, head tilted downwards, crying. ‘She’s, uh … she’s dead.’

‘Ah, no.’ Maureen crossed herself. ‘Long gone?’