There’s plenty of rearing in you, said Gina, her voice vibrating with feeling. I’ll go in and light a wee fire.

While the kettle was boiling, Cushla washed up. Gerry dried, buffing briskly. She imagined him in a school uniform, cleaning up after a meal his father had cobbled together at the end of a day’s work in the awful, bewildering months after his mother died. Cushla took down the Irish coffee glasses her father had bought in Killarney, with the gold rim and ring of shamrock around the base.

Your ma thinks we went to Dublin for a dirty weekend, said Gerry, watching her make the drinks, his back to the worktop.

Shit.

I don’t mind covering for you, but you need to let me know, so I don’t land you in it. Who were you with that you can’t tell anyone?

I can’t tell anyone.

Is it one of the fathers from school?

No!

Is it Bradley? Slattery?

There’s something wrong with you.

Is he married?

No.

I think he’s a Prod.

Why do you say that?

Because a nice Fenian boy like me wouldn’t expect you to stay out all night. He’d be happy with a quick diddy ride in a car.

That’s disgusting. Look, I’ll tell you, but you have to swear to God not to tell a soul.

I swear.

It’s Brian Faulkner.

Fuck away off.

It is. That’s why I can’t tell anybody.

He was sniggering. Does he talk dirty with marleys in his mouth?

Oh, aye. Very Malone Road, she said, in Michael’s accent. It felt good to make fun of him, it made him seem real. And now someone knew she was in a relationship, if that was what it was; mostly it felt like a situation.

They drank the Irish coffees in front of the television, passing the box of chocolates between them. Gina said there was so little whiskey in hers she doubted Cushla had done much more than shake the bottle at the glass. Gerry looked at Cushla. He had seen her make them, must have noticed that she gave Gina a fraction of the booze she put in the other glasses.

Songs of Praise came on. The congregation were dressed in their Sunday best, faces raised to the pastel-coloured light from a rose window behind the altar. The church was festooned in Union Jacks, and wall plaques remembered fallen parishioners. The camera switched to the front pew and a line of natty little men wearing berets and blazers, medals pinned to their chests.

I love this programme, said Gerry.

You do not, said Cushla.

I’m a choirmaster. Listen to them, belting out the songs.

Agreed, said Gina. Not like our ones, mumbling.