I went out to get these, said Cushla, holding out the bruised flowers. Gina flinched. Nature repulsed her. She had never brought Eamonn and Cushla to the park or the beach. Once, when she was small, Cushla steeped rose petals in water overnight, an attempt at making perfume. The next morning she found the jam jar upside down on the draining board, the slimy remains of her tincture in the plughole.

Cushla took down their biggest pot, an aluminium fish kettle, from the top of the cupboard and put in water, the eggs, the flowers. Her hands were stinging and fragrant with coconut. She stayed at the hob, listening to the rumble of the water as it gathered heat, the faint clack the eggs made as they bobbed against each other. When they were done, she dredged them one by one from the water with a slotted spoon and laid them in a colander in the sink. The shells had turned yolk-yellow.

She joined her mother in the sitting room. What are you watching? she said.

Some courtroom thing.

A barrister was in his chambers. He had a bulbous nose and piercing eyes that he kept narrowing below his wig.

The get-up of him, said Gina.

Cushla sat on the sofa. The barrister’s name was Rumpole. He was defending a young Black man accused of stabbing someone outside Lord’s Cricket Ground. He advised the man to plead guilty but he insisted on pleading innocent.

That doesn’t mean he’s innocent, Gina said.

That’s not the point. His job is to defend him. Everyone’s entitled to a defence, said Cushla. As soon as the words were out she felt ridiculous. She had got a lumber off a barrister in a car and now she was an expert on the criminal justice system.

Speaking of which, Michael Agnew was in the paper today, said Gina. Criticising the Diplock court system. He’ll not win any popularity contests saying things like that out loud.

He’s right. It’s an unfair system. Three judges, all probably Protestants who went to the same school, and no jury. Where’s the paper?

I lit the fire with it.

How did Daddy know him?

Your Uncle Frank was in some early civil rights organisation about ten years ago. Michael Agnew was involved as well. There weren’t too many Prods lining up to do that.

Was Daddy involved?

Jesus, no. He had to keep his nose clean behind that bar. But we saw plenty of Michael in those days.

Was he ever in this house? she asked.

He came to a few parties. Me and your da had great parties, said Gina. She lit a cigarette, staring at the floor as she took the first drag; happy memories made her morose.

Is he still friends with Uncle Frank?

How the hell would I know! said Gina. The Laverys don’t come near me. Anyway, what has you so interested?