Cushla had insisted on cooking. There was a roast chicken and potatoes; peas from a tin with a blob of mint sauce, the way Cushla’s father had liked them; a gravy boat of Bisto. Mr Reid had given her a head of pamphrey that she had boiled and tossed with butter. Gerry finished his beer and refused another, switching to water. He remarked on the length of time Davy had been left in the pew for his penance, said he was surprised Cushla hadn’t gone buck mad with Bradley, since she was a bit of a targe at school. Gina said she was a pain in the arse at home as well and began to tell stories of Cushla’s unreasonable behaviour. For once, Cushla was grateful for the negative attention.

That was nice, Gina said when they had finished eating, making no effort to keep the surprise from her voice.

Cushla hadn’t made pudding. Gina suggested they have Irish coffee. Cushla’s heart sank. Gina appeared not to have been drinking since her fall, and Cushla had let herself entertain the idea that the last time had been the last time.

The rotary whisk jangled loudly against the side of the glass bowl as she whipped cream, and at first she didn’t hear the phone. She rushed past the kitchen table and lifted it on the eighth or ninth ring. Gina had said something to make Gerry burst out laughing and Cushla said hello three times before she could make out a voice.

Who is with you? It was Michael, speaking so softly she could hardly hear him.

Gerry and my mummy. Who’s with you?

He breathed out slowly, almost a sigh. How was the big day?

Lovely.

The sound of footsteps, a voice calling, Dad! A young man, not a boy. The line went dead.

She pictured Michael depressing the button to silence her. What scene was playing out in the Agnew house? A dinner with stilted conversation, the boy an unwilling mediator between parents who hated each other. A glass being topped up, over and over, looks exchanged over the flow. Or worse, the drinking was done in secret. Maybe the boy knew his mother’s hiding places. Maybe he walked into the kitchen with a knot in his gut, like Cushla did, wondering which mother was going to greet him. But there had been no hint of strain in his voice. ‘Dad!’ had been a happy sound.

Who was that on the phone? said Gina.

Wrong number. Cushla turned in time to see her mother part her lips to let smoke waft upwards, veiling her face. There was something grotesquely sexy in the act.

Gerry brought their dirty plates to the sink and went back to the table with a damp cloth, brushing debris into his palm and wiping vigorously.