It suits you.

They were talking about that McGeown man in the hairdresser’s, said Gina. The dumpy one from the estate said she’d often seen him staggering home, full. Bad bitch. As if that’s an excuse for beating him to a pulp.

One of his kids is in my class. I had him here with me a couple of weeks ago. Do you remember him?

Of course I remember, said Gina, the answer coming so fast it was clear she didn’t.

She could hardly walk, Cushla wanted to say, that’s what the child said about you. I should go up to see them, she said.

There’s enough soup to feed an army, said Gina, crossing to the overstocked pantry. They had run out of food towards the end of the Ulster Workers’ Council strike the previous year and over her dead body would bastard loyalists leave them hungry again. She filled two shopping bags and they left for the estate.

Wouldn’t you think they could have given them a house at the front? said Gina as they passed through the grey quadrants. She had been born above a pub in 1920, during the first Troubles, days after her parents had been burnt-out by their Protestant neighbours. Wherever she went, she looked for an escape route.

Two women in geometric-patterned housecoats were standing in a garden three doors up from the McGeowns’. Cushla said hello. They didn’t reply.

Tommy answered the door, hands on the hips of washed-out grey cords, a thin acrylic jumper with an argyle pattern barely reaching the belt. My mummy’s not here, he said.

Take them bags off our Cushla, and let us in, for God’s sake, before I drop this pot, said Gina.

They followed him into the house. Davy was on a rust-coloured velour settee, snuggled into Mandy, his sister. He got up and stood uncertainly in front of Cushla. My daddy was the victim of an attack, he said, as if they were in class and he was giving her The News.

Cushla dropped to her knees and took his hands. I know, Davy, she said. He looked disappointed, as if he had expected more from her.

The kitchen was spotless but claustrophobically cluttered. Bleach-faded worktops stacked with Tupperware. A Formica table pushed into a corner, five small stools under it, one sticking out. A clothes horse hung with socks and jumpers and towels partly blocking the back door, the wall above it clouded where it met the ceiling, as though an attempt had been made to wipe away mildew.

It’s good drying weather, said Gina. You could hang those outside.

The neighbours keep cutting down our washing line, said Mandy.

They throw dog’s dirt over the fence, said Davy.

Charming, said Gina. She was at the hob, stirring. Mandy was setting the table.