“Benji’s father was supposedly an American, that’s true. And his mother did meet him in Scotland, the week of that golf tournament. And like a lot of women in our poor little town, she found herself pregnant too young. She never breathed a word to anyone except my mom. But once she started showing, Claire’s parents were ashamed. It was one thing in our community when people knew who the father was. They had someone to blame. But keeping the father secret made it harder for Claire. People acted like it was her fault. It was terrible, the way they treated her. She was smart. A good athlete. But once she gave birth, she was on her own. And Carndonagh was not an easy place to be on your own.

“She raised Benji by herself, working in a butcher shop during the day, living in a flat above it at night. They barely had a penny. The town looked at them as potlickers. Claire wouldn’t take any help from her folks. She was proud, even a bit headstrong, to be honest.

“One night, according to my ma, Claire came by, all worked up. She said she’d read a story in a magazine about Benji’s birth father. He was hugely successful now and lived in Boston. Claire said she was going to find him, tell him about their son. She believed he would take responsibility. Of course my ma told her, ‘Don’t be daft. He’ll cast you off like a beggar.’ But Claire was convinced. She and Benji moved in with us for almost a year, so she could save what she earned and use it for plane tickets. That’s when Benji and I got really close. We shared the same bed, ate our breakfasts together. We thought of each other as brothers, because we didn’t have brothers of our own.

“Anyhow. You read what happened. They went all the way to the States, and my mother was right. The guy rejected her. Claire was broken. My mother sensed it from her letters and phone calls. That’s why we moved to Boston, to be near her. They had a strong sister thing, those two, stronger than work, stronger than country. Funny, ’cause Benji and I kind of developed the same bond.