His parents were revelling in his new job. They still lived near Flan and Ginny in Kennedy Crescent. After nearly thirty years in New York, Tom’s sister, Dympna, and her husband, Eamon, had surprised everyone by returning home to run the filling station. Having two de-facto Americans in charge of the business had presented challenges. ‘You’ve got to get it into your heads,’ his father had said, ‘gas is what heats the house. We sell petrol. People pay in euros. And if someone is old enough to drive a car, they’re old enough to buy a bottle of wine. Don’t go bothering them for ID.’

If you asked Tom, his mam and dad were enjoying the best years of their lives. Devoted users of their senior citizens travel passes, they were constantly on the road. It was strange, he thought, how much time was spent dissecting the lives of young people when the biggest change had been in the lives of the older generation. When Tom was a child, anyone over seventy had been left in the corner with a blanket thrown over their knees. At school, few kids had a full complement of grandparents. Nowadays, seventy was nothing. If called upon, both of Tom’s parents were willing to do a turn at the petrol station. And while his son, Hugh, was the main GP in the village, Emmet Minogue continued to see patients. Age hadn’t mellowed him.

On his way to the office, Tom had bumped into Helen Minogue. She was unusual in Kilmitten in that she tended not to speak unless she had something to say. For once, she’d been full of talk. Nina had told her about all of them being together in the hospital, she said. No matter that they were nearly fifty years old, Helen made it sound as if her daughter was grateful to be included in the childhood gang.

Conor sent a text to say that he was in Pilkington’s snug. In twenty years, the place had barely changed. The owners were either indifferent to shifting fashions or too lazy to update the decor. Tom suspected the latter was closer to the truth. The best you could say about Pilkington’s on a Saturday afternoon was that it was quiet.

‘Here we are, like two old lads,’ he said, as he lifted his pint.

‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ replied Conor. ‘Donie and Seánie O’Grady are watching the racing in the bar. I thought you’d prefer the snug.’

‘A wise decision. How are you?’

‘Grand. A bit sore, but that’s to be expected. I’m likely to be off work for another while, and the visitors have dried up. Once everyone was happy I wasn’t going to die, they disappeared again.’

‘That’s probably no harm. You were never a man for fuss.’