His wife gave him a sideways glance. ‘That’s not true. All I said was, you don’t want to be seen swanning around the globe. Voters resent that sort of behaviour. Someone has to think of these things.’

‘My heart goes out to you, Vanessa,’ said Tess. ‘Being married to a big chancer like Tom can’t be easy.’

Truth to tell, her sympathies were in the opposite direction.

In Pilkington’s, Tess sat with her mother, Flan and Lauren. Although the Christmas decorations were already in place, nobody could accuse the bar of getting carried away. Apart from some weary tinsel and a few crêpe-paper streamers, the room was unadorned. The dinner was borderline inedible: fatty pork, gruel-like mash and mushy carrots. And the gravy? Tess half expected the waiter to ask if she wanted one lump or two. Her mother gave her a poke and whispered, ‘You’re at a funeral. Eat up your dinner and don’t be a brat.’ Tess was tempted to point out that she was forty-eight years old and could do as she pleased. She took another slug of white wine and thought better of it. The wine reminded her of petrol, but at least it was plentiful.

Time passed by, the swell of voices filling the room. Ginny and Flan were with a gang of old-timers, reminiscing about the days when Mercedes was in her pomp. (‘Do you remember when she took up line dancing? Or the Christmas she put up so many lights there was a power cut on Pearse Terrace? And what about the time she told Father Cleary to lighten up on the Hell and damnation because people’s lives were hard enough and they didn’t need that sort of thing on a Sunday?’) Mags Moynihan alternated between tears and laughter, as did Mercedes’ husband, Brendan. Cora Crossan, hair starched into place, was at the edge of the group. Haulie, wearing a jacket so loud they could probably hear it in Dublin, was there too. If ever there was a day for regurgitating old stories and reliving past glories, this was it. Tess suspected that if you offered people in Kilmitten the choice between a party and a funeral, most would choose the funeral.

Tom had forgotten about the high-speed broadband crisis and was at peak hail-fellow-well-met. After a showy goodbye and an invitation to visit their house ‘any time, any time at all’, Vanessa went to collect the boys from school.

People kept telling Tess how great it was to see her and how kind she was to make the journey. They asked about Daisy and Miles. They looked at the photos on her phone without once appearing bored. She had another glass of wine. And another.

She floated back into Tom’s orbit. ‘Any word from Conor?’ she asked. ‘I remember you saying he’d been pestering you as well. About Father Galvin, I mean.’