Michael found her a seat on the arm of a couch in a poky room next to the kitchen with a television in the corner and went off to get a bottle of wine. Cushla unwrapped her cutlery, looking determinedly at it. She felt eyes on her and glanced up; she was the only woman in the room. She speared a piece of chicken and lifted it to her mouth, scratching her lip with the tines of the fork.

Crème de menthe man darkened the doorway then squashed himself on the seat cushion beside her, holding up a green pint. Bon appétit, he said.

Same to you.

How do you know Michael?

My family has a bar.

Ah yes, you’re the barmaid. I did wonder. You’re rather demure, actually, in a fecund sort of way.

Do you actually like that stuff or is it just an affectation you resort to because you have a shite personality? she said. She got up and stalked towards the kitchen. Mrs Coyle was ahead of her with a column of dirty plates stacked against her middle. Michael was by the table, a bottle of wine in one hand and his plate in the other.

That doctor is a dick, said Cushla.

What did he say?

It doesn’t matter what he said. I shouldn’t have come.

I’m going to speak to him.

Then it’ll look like I’m causing ructions.

Michael dumped the bottle and plate on the table and left the room. Mrs Coyle half-turned. You’d need a thick skin, she said.

Or a good Protestant one.

She laughed. You were well able for him.

Oh Jesus. You heard. You must think badly of me.

You wouldn’t think much of me, love, if you knew my business.

Michael came back. So, did you beat him up, big lad? said Cushla.

I didn’t have to. He was already chastened by whatever you said to him. How are you two getting along?

Great. Fenian Corner, we’re calling it, said Cushla.

He picked up a wine bottle and, finding just a couple of inches in it, put it to his mouth and drained it. Imagine if I did that, said Cushla. Mrs Coyle giggled.

They went back to the drawing room, leaving Mrs Coyle at the sink. A man had begun to sing, crude words to an old air. Most of the other men joined in for the chorus, which ended in the line ‘and the hairs on her dickey dido hung down to her knees’. Someone sang ‘Loch Lomond’. Someone else sang an Irish drinking song, in an exaggerated brogue to show he was being ironic. One began to recite ‘Tam o’ Shanter’, but three verses in Jim told him to shut up. Cushla looked around her. The women were smiling indulgently, their gold glinting in the light. Please tell me you don’t have a party piece, she said to Michael.