Ha, said Cushla.

How’s your morning going? he asked, running a finger around the neck of his shirt, which was purple with a big rounded collar.

Slattery was in. He grilled the kids on catechism and told them a horrific story.

I get the guitar when I see him coming. Drowns the bastard out.

She couldn’t help laughing. Even he doesn’t deserve that, she said.

He looked around him wildly, as if he had forgotten something. I’m going to a party, he said eventually. His leg was jiggling, making his trousers ripple like a sail.

That’s nice.

Do you want to come?

Cushla hadn’t been out since the staff drinks at Christmas. Her social life was limited to driving her mother to Mass and working the odd shift for Eamonn. It would be nice to go out. Even with Gerry Devlin. OK, she said.

What?

I’ll go to the party with you.

Great. The bell rang and he sloshed the rest of his coffee down the sink.

When is it on?

Oh. Saturday night.

The two P4 teachers were sitting near the door. One of them winked at Cushla as she left the room. She would have to suffer sidelong looks in the staffroom until the end of the week. Gerry Devlin lurking by the kettle, asking her questions he’d clearly prepared earlier, the leg going. She should have told him she was busy.

In the classroom, Cushla doled out squat bottles of milk from the crate Paddy the caretaker left – bizarrely – by the radiator every morning and told the children to take a few extra minutes. They lingered by her desk, ripping off the foil caps and stabbing their tongues into the inch of cream that had settled on top.

What’s the UVF, miss? said Zoe.

Ulster Volunteer Force, said Jonathan.

Jonathan, you could go on Mastermind. Chosen subject ‘Acronyms of the Troubles’, said Cushla.

But was that story true, miss? asked Lucia, when the empty bottles were back in the crate.

Father Slattery is very old, said Cushla – a lie, as the man was scarcely sixty – sometimes he gets mixed up.

Lucia and Zoe looked unconvinced, as if they had understood in some way what had happened to the girl. Children here knew too much.

For the rest of the day, the children were skittish. She allowed them to pack their satchels a few minutes early and they skipped from the classroom before the bell sounded.

The sky was heavy with the threat of rain. By the time she passed the main entrance, it had begun to lash down, and dozens of mothers were waiting, umbrellas touching like a badly made quilt. On the other side of the road was the secondary school where Minty was caretaker. It was attended by Protestants who had not passed the eleven plus. Bradley’s opposite number had agreed to different start, finish and lunch times because his pupils liked to express anti-Catholic sentiment through song and verse and the throwing of missiles.