‘That’s what I’m here for,’ she said, and she meant it.

‘She’s a bit handy with the towel this morning.’ Seamus gave him a knowing raise of the eyebrows and a nod in the direction of the tea towel.

Nola liked to serve Joe his tea. He wasn’t allowed to lift a finger. It had broken her heart that all of her children other than Michael had left the farm for America and never returned, but then Joe had arrived. Nola had made her peace with the Holy Mother while she was on her knees at the shrine in the Church of the Sacred Heart. ‘I know what ye are doing,’ she’d whispered as she knelt. ‘You’ve sent me the nearest you had available. I understand, and I promise I will look after him as if he were me own. But if you see our Mary – you will find her in Brooklyn, so you will – if she is praying for a visit home one day to see her Mammy before I die, I would love to see her, Holy Mother, just once more. She was my firstborn, you see, and I haven’t laid eyes on her since the day she left. She was just seventeen, she was, and oh God, I would love to see her sweet face and hear her voice before the good Lord calls me. She was such a good child and she writes home every week. If it’s not too much to be asking, like.’

Seamus, sitting on the pew beside her, had heard Nola’s words. They fell on his heart like a heavy hand on a fresh bruise and no matter how hard he’d rubbed his eyes, the tears would not go away.

Now though, sitting at the breakfast table, he was smarting from the sharp side of Nola’s tongue. ‘I can’t speak for saying something wrong,’ he grumbled to Joe, just before he stuffed the last of his fried bread in his mouth.

‘What do ye want for ye breakfast, Joe? Will I do ye a bit of everything?’ Nola asked as she poured his tea.

‘He’s missed his breakfast now – it’s out to fix the fence, so it is,’ said Seamus and instantly regretted it.

‘Shut your mouth, you,’ she said. ‘He’ll be going nowhere until he’s eaten.’

Seamus was saved by the door opening. It was Michael.

‘I have news,’ he said before the door was even closed behind him.

Nola, unused to moments of glory, blurted out, ‘Is it Mary Kate? Is she at Angela’s cottage?’ and blessed herself as Michael’s mouth dropped open.

‘Was that letter from the Brogan mammy a crock of shite then?’ asked Seamus.

‘Of course it was,’ said Michael. ‘Not even our Mary Kate, as clever as she is, could get herself married and have two grown-up sons in two short years.’

Seamus laughed. ‘The very notion. But the Brogans have known the Malones forever – how could Dana have made a mistake? I’ll tell you this, that woman, she’s too fond of the bottle.’