She told him she had taken the children to the park and seen a couple of bluebells. He asked her to wait and disappeared for a moment, returning with a small tray of seedlings, cornflowers, since she liked blue. He asked after her mother and she told him without enthusiasm she was well. He had been in his garden the day Cushla had slung the bottles into the bin, had heard the glass shatter. When he wasn’t in the garden he was at his front window. He had surely seen Cushla get out of Michael’s car, looking as though she had been thoroughly handled. What must he have thought of them?

When she went inside, Gina had left the table. Cushla went upstairs to get ready and heard her moving around the bathroom, the gush of the tap. She changed quickly, putting on jeans – not the ones with a patch on the arse – and the cheesecloth shirt she had worn the first night. Freckles had come up on her nose and cheeks. She drew around her eyes with grey liner and rubbed it to soften it. Two coats of mascara and lip gloss and a rap at the door to tell Gina she was going to work.

What about your dinner? her mother said. There had been no dinner for days.

Four men were sitting on stools against the wall of the pub, pints in their hands. One lifted his hand to his eyes, as if he was gazing at the horizon from the deck of a ship. Here’s my favourite barmaid, he said. It was the groper from before.

Inside, every seat was taken. Minty, Jimmy, Leslie. Fidel, who raised his vodka at Cushla, his preferred tipple when he was flush. How’s my best customer? he said.

Skint, said Cushla.

Fidel laughed. She bought fifty-three pokes off me the day, he said.

You’d better spend it all on booze, said Eamonn. What are you doing here? he asked her.

Mummy said Marian’s not feeling good.

Mummy’s a murder picture, Cushla.

She’s been on a bender for weeks. I tried to tell you.

I’m looking after this place. I thought you were looking after her, he said. When their father got sick, Eamonn had assumed the role of head of the family. But their father had been gentle and measured.

She went on to the floor with a damp cloth, gathering dirty glasses, wiping sticky rings from the teak tables. When she came back, Michael was there, slightly behind the other men. He already had a drink in his hand. She reached across him to put a fistful of empties on the counter.

You’ve been in the sun, he said.

You haven’t.