Bugger off, said Michael.

Jim left the table to answer a rap at the door. Voices in the hall, loud then soft, as though they did not want to be overheard. Cushla realised with a pang that they were talking about her.

She recognised Victor from current affairs programmes on television. He was short and wiry, wearing a sleeveless khaki jacket with pens protruding from the breast pocket. He was a little out of breath, which gave the impression he had been running around Saigon. Jane had hair the colour of toffee and huge brown eyes rimmed by spidery lashes. She said hello in a small voice.

The insides of Cushla’s jaws were dry from the wine, as if she had been drinking black tea. She lifted a biscuit and bit it.

What do you think? said Penny.

It’s nice, she said, but I didn’t expect it to be fishy. They laughed, although whether with her or at her she could not tell. All except Victor, who was peering at her through the smoke from the cigar he was toking on in urgent puffs.

Michael tells us you’re a native speaker, he said, a slight stress on ‘native’.

Cushla remembered again what Gerry had said. I did it for my A levels, she said. ‘My’ had come out as ‘me’. She felt her colour rise.

Penny took the platter away and dumped a clatter of bone-handled knives and forks and a bundle of linen napkins in its place. She lifted an oval earthenware dish from the Aga and rested it on a rusty trivet in the centre of the table. Its contents were burnished and bubbling, dark juices dripping down the sides.

Cushla got up. Can I do anything? she said. Penny was buffing the inside of a wooden bowl with a scrap of garlic. She handed Cushla a tea towel and asked her to take plates from the warming oven. Behind them, Michael was saying: Diplock courts … no juries … not what I signed up for. The space between the oven shelves was narrow and Cushla felt a singe on her wrist as it touched hot metal. For a second she thought she might cry, not in pain, but with frustration. She repositioned the tea towel and went around the table laying a plate at each place. Michael watched her reach across him.

You burned yourself, he said. The mark was livid, already rising. He led her to the sink and held her hand under the cold tap, his thumb on her pulse. Her heart was clobbering in her chest and she wanted to run from the house.

Poor Cushla, said Penny, I should have done it myself. Her tone was kind, but it was the sort of thing Eamonn or Gina might have said.

Cushla slipped into her seat. The others were passing Penny their plates. Cushla need not have handed them out, but nobody told her.

Moussaka, said Jane, as Penny dug a collop of food from the dish. Where did you find aubergines?