‘Are you Emmet?’

‘I am indeed.’

‘My name is Eliza. Eliza Miller. I’m from Australia.’ Her accent had already told him that. She waited, embarrassed again, hoping his barman had told him an Australian was dropping in today.

‘So you are,’ he said, smiling now. ‘You’re a long way from home.’

‘My godmother spoke to your barman. She said I might be visiting.’

‘She spoke to Liam? Sorry, what about? He’s been off sick. I haven’t seen him since I got back from holidays myself.’

This was worse. She was starting from scratch. About to explain, she was saved again. The door opened. A local called over to Emmet. A pint was poured and delivered. Then he was back to her.

‘Sorry about that. Not that we’re exactly rushed off our feet yet. You were talking to Liam?’

‘My godmother was. About a video message.’ She couldn’t go ahead with that cover story. She dived in instead. ‘My mother was Jeannie Miller. In Melbourne. Thirty-one years ago.’

His reaction was instantaneous. ‘You’re Jeannie’s daughter! Jeannie! Jesus, why didn’t you say?’ She was shocked, nearly spilt her drink, when he leaned down, pulled her to her feet and hugged her. Hugged her tightly. ‘I see it in you now. I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t told me. God, now I can’t unsee it! What did you say your name was? Eliza? How is Jeannie? Is she here in Ireland too? Has she sent you in here first as a joke? I wouldn’t put it past her!’

‘You remember her?’

‘Of course I remember Jeannie! She kept me sane in London and here for a month one summer. Apart from nearly helping me lose my life, she also saved me in Melbourne.’ He laughed again. ‘She sent you to Trim to surprise me? Why didn’t she contact me herself? How long has it been? Thirty years? More. Jesus, Jeannie Miller’s daughter! How fantastic. Hold on, stay there, would you?’

He went over to the group of four. Asked if they were all right for everything? They were, great, good. He checked with the other customer. ‘Tom, you’re all right for now? Good man.’

He came back, pulled up the stool across from her, sat down, shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe it. She always threatened to visit again but she never did. We lost touch. Nothing like Facebook for us back then. How is she? God, I see her in you now, clear as day.’

There was no way to sugar-coat it. She blurted it out. ‘I’m sorry, but she died.’

‘She died. What? When? Oh, God, I’m sorry. Jeannie dead. It doesn’t seem possible. When?’

‘Thirteen years ago. She was about to turn forty.’

‘Dear God, so young. Too young. I’m so sorry. Was it cancer?’