She drove down the road, past her house. It was hard not to pull in and check on Gina, but she didn’t want to give in. Her mother had been peevish since Sunday, ranting about Marian, that she was dragging the girls up, that she had the bounce on Eamonn, that she dressed like a barmaid. The previous night, Cushla had finally lost her temper. The girls were afraid of Gina because she didn’t know how to talk to children, she countered. Eamonn could have told them about the baby but he chose not to. And at least Marian didn’t sit on a stool behind the bar, getting pissed when she was meant to be working.

It was not yet five. Eamonn’s white Capri was the only car outside the pub. Inside, the room smelled of Handy Andy and lavender furniture polish; Marian had been doing Gina’s cleaning. She was sitting at the bar, between the girls, who were drinking lemonade from Babycham glasses, bags of crisps ripped open in front of them.

I used to do that, said Cushla.

About five years ago, said Eamonn.

Very funny, said Cushla.

Minty and Jimmy were further along the counter. Eamonn leaned across the bar, his nose wrinkling. You smell like beef and damp fanny, he said.

Cushla sniffed at her top. It’s the smell of the McGeowns’ kitchen, she said.

Eamonn’s eyes flicked from Minty to Cushla, his mouth forming an ‘o’, shushing her. Keep your oar out, he said.

Why?

Cos it’s none of your business.

Is the house bogging? whispered Marian.

No, said Cushla. It’s immaculate. She can’t hang her washing out, so the kitchen’s mouldy.

Any chance youse could change the subject? said Eamonn.

Marian made a face at him and began rooting in her bag. She produced a bottle of perfume and sprayed it at Cushla. It was heavy and floral, sickeningly so, but the gesture was sisterly and Cushla found herself smiling. The girls held their wrists out and Marian misted them too.

Smells like the inside of a huir’s handbag round here today, said Eamonn, looking over Cushla’s shoulder. She turned to see who he was speaking to. It was Michael. She felt a rush of elation so strong she didn’t trust herself to speak. He was wearing ordinary clothes, tweed and brown corduroy. There was a newspaper under his arm.

How’s Cushla? he said quietly, as Eamonn passed him a whiskey.

Good. How are you?

All right, he said.

There was a shriek. Emma had slid off her stool and landed on the floor. Marian tried to haul her up, but there was too much bulk at her middle. Eamonn came from behind the counter, scooping the child off the carpet. Her cry had risen to a wail, and Nicola had begun to howl too.

I tried to phone you, said Michael.