I hold myself steady, walking carefully like I don’t fully trust the ground beneath me. They bring me to a room and ask if I would like tea. I say no but they bring it anyway. And when the officer puts the steaming mug in front of me, I wrap my hands around it and realize that I am freezing. I am shaking.

‘Drink it, Mrs Holland,’ she tells me. ‘It will help, with the shock.’

She asks if there is anything else I need, and I say no. No, I am fine. She looks at me strangely. Her eyes flicker to the blouse I am wearing.

‘You’ll need to change out of that,’ she says, and I look down and see the blood. Smears of it, rust brown, already hardening, embedded into the silk fibres.

‘Oh yes,’ I say, aware of the rumbling at the edge of my thoughts, getting louder now.

‘I’ll have them bring you something,’ she says. I thank her, and she flashes me another look – it is a cool look of enquiry. There is blood on my blouse, but she is wondering is there any blood running through my veins? I’m the mother, for God’s sake!

Thoughts buzz in my head like bees.

France, sunlight on the river, the girls in the water, arms about each other, slowly turning.

And then another memory:

We are in the kitchen at Willow Park, Eva and Beth, Mark and me. I am spooning rice and stir-fried chicken on to plates lined up along the island counter. At the table in the alcove, Mark is clearing away his papers while Eva watches him, her hands bristling with cutlery, waiting to set places for dinner. Outside the day is darkening. I’m tired, still carrying some residual stress in my body from the work meetings that afternoon. The mess Mark has made annoys me and I’m taking it out in the kitchen where I tap the serving spoon sharply against the edge of the wok. Part of me is a little apprehensive about the arrival of the French girl the next day, one of twenty taking part in the school exchange programme. It’s Friday evening and all I really want is to sink into a hot bath with a glass of wine and listen to the next episode of Serial. The overhead kitchen light is casting Beth’s auburn hair in a golden glow, her head bent over the letter from school as she reads it aloud.

‘The flight from Tours is due to land at Dublin Airport at 3.30 p.m. on Saturday, 8th April. All host families are requested to meet at the Arrivals Lounge in Terminal 1 at 3.15 p.m. where Ms Doyle will be waiting. Once the students have come through, Ms Doyle will assign each student to their host family.’