They both knew this wouldn’t happen, and weeks later Tess still had guilty thoughts about her mother, stuck in Kilmitten with Jim Duignan, a man with all the charisma of a cement block. Adding to her guilt was a row they’d had about her father. She wanted to know who he was. Her mam said all she needed to know was that he hadn’t been interested in either of them. Tess wheedled and cajoled until her mother began to cry, but she didn’t get an answer. She considered the possibility that somebody in the village might be able to help. Mags or Mercedes, perhaps. But, no, they’d have been incapable of staying quiet. If they knew her father’s identity, they’d have let it slip before now.

None of this meant she was in any hurry to go home. As much as she loved her mother, she would never want her life. Tess’s mam spent forty hours a week in a cold, smelly factory. On Fridays, she received a small brown envelope containing enough money for a few groceries and a night out. If she complained, some sour-face or other would tell her she was lucky to have a job. Who would want that life?

As she’d moved through her teens, Tess had grown into her looks. She was still too thin, but there were worse afflictions. Plus, being two inches shy of six feet had its advantages. She could intimidate little scuts like the O’Grady brothers without even trying. She’d also had blonde highlights added to her light brown hair. Friends, and some teachers, had maintained that her looks should be an advantage. But how? She had no interest in the beauty contests that proliferated at home: the Queen of the Back End of Nowhere where all the contestants had fat red cheeks and bad perms, and the top prize was a hamper of cheese and your picture in the local paper.