Lorna glanced in her direction. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but perhaps you should consider something else.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. What are you qualified for? Teaching? PR? Something steadier, at any rate. What does Phelim think?’

Jessie didn’t answer. She focused on the road ahead, and on the patchwork of fields that lined the way to the family home. At least Lorna was direct. Being pecked at by her was easier than dealing with their parents’ understated disappointment.

The Dalys lived in a pebble-dashed bungalow, one of many built in the area in the 1970s and 1980s. Compared to the two-storey houses of more recent years, with their glossy crimson doors and ornate gates, it looked insubstantial. If the building was modest, the front and back gardens were works of art, tended with care and no little skill by their mother, Maeve. As Jessie climbed out of the vehicle, it was the smell that struck her first, the blend of wallflowers and magnolia that meant springtime at home.

Having spent her school days with her nose pressed against an imaginary window, hankering after a world outside Clooneven, she’d left at eighteen. She’d been certain that everything she wanted was elsewhere. Her visits home had been infrequent.

Her father, Denis, worked in a light engineering plant in Ennis. It was skilled if unglamorous work. Although he could be great fun, he was also a follower-of-rules, a man who believed in turning up on time with a clear head and polished shoes. Maeve was a petite woman who distrusted artifice and show. She darned socks, went around the house switching off lights and took pride in her ability to make endless bowls of soup from a chicken carcass and a few wizened vegetables. If Lorna’s ostentation annoyed her, she was careful not to let it show.

Jessie’s father was at the front door. While usually he would have given her a hug, today he was reserved. He looked more worn than she remembered. His light grey hair needed a trim and his brown jacket shone as if given one pressing too many. He’d been wearing the same jacket, or a clone of it, for the past twenty years.

‘Were there many on the bus?’ he said, as he picked up her case. She decided against pointing out that it had wheels.

‘It was quiet enough.’

‘Not a bad old day, all the same.’

‘We’ve had worse,’ said Lorna. ‘The forecast for next week is good.’

They could carry on like this for hours, batting around words while saying nothing. Eventually, though, they would have to talk, and Jessie still wasn’t sure how much to say.