Davy was a hundred yards down the road. Cushla braked and pressed the horn, throwing open the passenger door. Do you want a lift? she said.

I’m not allowed to get into cars with strangers.

I’m hardly a stranger. I’ll explain to your mummy.

He hopped into the passenger seat. His jumper smelled of steak sausages, but she refrained from reaching for the handle of the window, remembering how hurt he had been that morning. The Laverys’ house was on the way to the council estate where Davy lived. Eamonn was rarely at home when the girls were awake and Cushla had said she would come early. She could change now and go straight to the pub after dropping Davy off. She began to tell him to wait in the car, but he was halfway out the door.

Gina was at the kitchen table in her dressing gown, a quilted monstrosity with a purple and orange paisley pattern. There was a bottle of Gordon’s gin in front of her, its green glass unseasonably festive. She blinked slowly, like a porcelain doll. I’m not long up, she said, her voice thick.

Cushla leaned into her ear. Please. Just get up.

Gina put her hands flat on the wood and pushed herself upright. She took a step towards the door but her foot caught on the leg of the table. She sat down again.

Jesus, Cushla said, hooking her arm under Gina’s and pulling her to her feet.

Davy stood aside to let them pass. Is your mummy all right? he said.

She’s just tired. Take a biscuit from that tin by the kettle and I’ll be down in a minute.

Cushla hauled her mother up each stair until they were on the landing. She brought her into the bathroom and left her looking at her reflection in the mirror. Cushla went to her bedroom to change for work, reaching for the old clothes she normally wore. She hesitated. Michael Agnew might come in again. She pulled on jeans – a newish pair without patches – and her most grown-up top, black velour with a scooped neckline. It made her breasts look huge, which was not necessarily a good thing; she couldn’t picture Michael slobbering over page 3 the way Minty did.

Mummy? she called as she crossed the landing, aware as the word came out of her mouth that it was a ridiculous way for a grown woman to address her drunk mother. There was no reply so she pushed the bathroom door open. Gina was on the toilet, head lolling gently. Cushla shook her shoulder and her mother tilted towards the wash-hand basin, her cheek sliding down the porcelain. She jolted upright, regarding Cushla suspiciously. Sort yourself out, said Cushla, looking away as her mother groped for her drawers.

Cushla propelled her across the landing and on to her bed. You’re awful cross with me, Gina said.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, said Cushla. She took the cigarettes and lighter from the bedside locker and ran downstairs to Davy.