Bridget shook her head and set the cup in her lap. She looked concerned. ‘The whiskey will be welcome, but it won’t alter a thing. I do see something in here though.’

‘What? What is it? What do you see?’ Eyebrows raised, hands clasped together, voice bright with hope, Nola pushed up on the chair and eased herself to the edge of the seat, securing the arms of her spectacles over her ears.

Bridget looked up and met her friend’s eye with a steady gaze. ‘I see a woman coming home to Tarabeg with a heart heavier than the case she carries.’

Nola’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Holy Mother of God, is… is it…?’

‘Yes, it is, Nola,’ said Bridget. ‘It’s Mary Kate.’

Chapter 4

Mary Kate was exhausted and soaked through. It was November and the days were getting shorter and colder. Frustrated at the time it had taken for a tram to arrive outside St Angelus and then the transfer to the bus, she was almost in tears as she ran down Duke’s Avenue and through the back door of the house into the kitchen. Barely able to feel her fingers or toes, she saw with grateful relief that the range fire had been lit and was roaring up the chimney. And there was Jet, taking advantage of the fireside rug, far too warm and lazy to rise and greet her, but banging his big black tail to beat out his welcome home.

Mrs O’Keefe, who had proved to be more like a mother than a friend and neighbour, was laying the table. She looked up and smiled. Joan, as always, was standing at the sink, straining the boiling water from the carrots. Her face was pink from the steam and the heat of the oven, and her hair was all loose and wild, refusing to be contained.

‘How is he?’ Joan asked as Mary Kate banged the door shut behind her. She asked the same question of Mary Kate a dozen times a day.

‘Poorly,’ Mary Kate gasped, short of breath from having raced up from the bus stop.

Nicholas’s fingers had clung onto hers, not wanting to let go when she’d tried to slip out of the ward while he was sleeping. His eyes had opened wide and she’d been alarmed to see they were filled with fear. ‘Don’t leave me. Don’t go,’ he’d whispered.

But Nurse Brogan was already marching up and down the centre of the ward ringing the brass hand-bell.

‘I have no choice,’ Mary Kate had said as her lips brushed his protruding cheekbones and hot tears ran down her face. ‘I’m not allowed to stay. William’s coming after surgery finishes, so he’ll be here from four. And I’ll be the first at the door when six o’clock visiting begins. You look to the door and you’ll see me through the glass, on tiptoes, waiting to come in.’

He smiled. She always was there first, her red hair bobbing up and down in the frame of circular glass.