Disco Peeler came out of the pub. He tipped an imaginary hat and vanished into the tunnel. Cushla bent to sweep the fag ends, shredded Swan Vesta box and scattered matches the soldiers had left. The glamour, she said as she stood up.

I love you, he said.

She left a kiss on his neck. You’d better, Agnew.

22

22

Roads over drumlins that made her stomach leap, the Mournes in the distance, lilac-grey, looming larger the further south they travelled. Lush fields, tidy farmyards. Handmade signs for gospel halls and Baptist churches, words of warning: THE END IS NIGH.

Miserable bastards, said Gina.

The hotel was in a seaside resort overhung by the mountains. They were ten minutes early and Cushla drove along the promenade on which she and Eamonn had gnawed at sticks of rock and sweetie cigarettes, past amusement arcades and chip shops with greasy windows. The shopfronts were hung with gimcracks: bucket and spade sets, rubber rings, plastic pinwheels. She doubled back and drove through the gates of the hotel. It had been built in the grand days of railway, between the station and the shore. As a child she had thought it was like a castle from a fairy tale.

She found a parking space close to the entrance. The archway and foyer still seemed magnificent to her, with chandeliers and decorative mouldings. They went along a corridor to the dining room. It was stately, with wooden panelling and a red and gold patterned carpet. Vast gilt mirrors and tables set with starched linen and heavy silver.

She gave their surname and they were led to a table set for ten. Cushla explained there must be some mistake. The manager checked and said two sets of Laverys had made reservations. He showed them to a small table by a window, a few feet away from the large one.

Gina ordered a gin and soda, Cushla a Coke that arrived with two pink stripy straws.

Gina offered her a cigarette.

Why would you want me to smoke when it’s bad for me?

You look stupid with that fizzy drink in front of you. It’ll make you seem sophisticated.

I can’t believe you’re pushing fags on me, she said, but took one anyway.

The menus were handwritten in beautiful script, but so full of misspellings it read like an offering from an olde inn. Cushla read the errors aloud. Chedder. Redcurrent. Parcelly: her favourite, she told her mother, because it looked as though they had made an adverb of the word parcel.

Nobody likes a show-off, said Gina.

As Cushla put down the menu, a child leapt into her lap. It was Emma, Eamonn’s elder daughter. Eamonn was by the table for ten, looking around the room, and appeared momentarily confused when he saw his daughter with his mother and sister, as though something was out of place.