The noise of crackling wood filled the room.

‘That Matron, what a lovely woman,’ said Mrs O’Keefe, attempting to tug their thoughts away from the desperate grief of Mary Kate and the hatred in the eyes of Lavinia Marcus, and focus on the only good thing they had experienced that night: the kindness of Matron. She had taken them all up to her own rooms and dispensed tea and sympathy with the efficiency and compassion of someone who had done it many times before. She knew the words that might bring comfort, words that they had clung to.

‘Aye, and that doctor too. What was his name? Dr Gaskell? A right gentleman, he was.’ Cat clicked open her handbag and shuffled around inside to find her cigarettes.

‘Lavinia Marcus must have phoned the hospital herself to find out what was happening,’ Mrs O’Keefe said almost to herself. ‘There was no other way she could have known. While we were in with Matron and the doctor was talking to Mary Kate, she must already have been on her way up the avenue.’

Joan sniffed. Mrs O’Keefe and Cat had almost forgotten she was there and both turned to look at her as she removed a grey, crumpled and wet handkerchief from her pocket. She had barely stopped crying all evening. ‘I can’t believe he’s dead. What about the boys? They love their daddy,’ she said, for what must have been the fiftieth time. ‘What am I going to do now? Where am I going to work? I can’t go back there – she’s that wicked, and mad with me that I stayed when she left him, she’ll kill me, and all me things are in me room. I’m too scared to go back.’

Joan’s sniffle became a sob and Mrs O’Keefe walked over to her and gave her shoulders a squeeze.

‘Shush, Joan, don’t be worrying about that. You can sleep here, in the other bed in Deidra’s room, until we find you a placement, and if we don’t find one, you can stay here. Deidra is always saying the place is too big for one girl to manage.’

Joan’s eyes filled with fresh tears; this time they were tears of relief. ‘Can I? Oh, thank you, thank God for that.’ She was now on the verge of a wail. ‘I just can’t believe he’s dead. The boys, his little boys, who is going to tell them? Imagine being told by that heartless bitch!’

Eileen O’Keefe allowed her mind to wander to that scenario. Mary Kate loved those two little boys just as if they were her own, especially sensitive little Jack. She and Nicholas used to plan their lives around the weekends they’d been allowed to see them. She shuddered. It wasn’t a thought she wanted to dwell on. Some things she could change, but that wasn’t one of them.

‘Right,’ she said, clapping her hands, ‘I know what we all need.’ Moving across the room, she got down on her knees by the sideboard cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. ‘It was my old man’s. He was given it for a Christmas present the year before he died, but I’m sure it’s still got a kick.’