No. There are all kinds of families, he said, and was quiet.

She didn’t ask if he had plans; she didn’t want to hear the answer. Lest he found her aimless, she told him she had bought eggs that she would hard-boil so the children could paint them in school. He stepped over the gully, one long stride, and began to pluck flowers from a gorse bush. When he stepped back he offered them to her, dropping them into her cupped hands. The stems were tough and needly. He told her to put them in the water with the eggs. That she would see why when she did it. That one should never give gorse as a gift because it was unlucky for both the giver and the receiver. That he was happy to take his chances with bad luck if she was.

The sun had dropped. I should go home, she said.

In his car, he put the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it, shifting on his hip to face her. He touched her where her neck met her collarbone. You like that, he said, as her shoulder rose to meet his fingers.

Apparently so, she said.

He dragged the side of his hand across her clavicle and down her breastbone, so slowly it was almost painful. She heard herself take in a breath. He was on her then, his hand flat on her chest, his tongue in her mouth. He tasted strong, almost fetid. She opened her hand to touch him and there was a flurry of yellow as the gorse blossoms settled on them. He drew away and laughed, turning up her hand; she had been holding the gorse so tightly her palm was dented with red dashes. He kissed it and began to fill it again with the bruised flowers.

They went back down the road in silence. Outside her house she reached for the door handle but hesitated, not knowing how to part from him. The light had not quite fallen and she could not kiss him or touch him without risk of being seen. What happens now? she wanted to ask but could not bear to hear herself sound desperate. He was holding the steering wheel, the backs of his hands speckled with age spots. He looked at her and flexed his fingers. I’ll phone soon, he said.

Her mother was at the kitchen table, bra unfastened under her jumper, the cups sitting high and pointy on her sternum, her real breasts drooping below them. Cushla could sense the start of a bender. A paschal slide into self-pity. Where did you disappear to? said Gina.