Penny would have a solo exhibition in the summer. Jim had been invited to speak at a conference in Scotland and their daughters would join them for a few days. Victor had been commissioned to write a book about the Ulster Workers’ Council strike. Cushla thought he was looking at her as he told them. Michael asked Jane how she was. She said she had translated a short letter from Brazil for an engineering firm and the Portuguese was so bad it had taken two days. She became animated as she talked and Cushla realised Michael had been aware of Victor’s surly mood and was trying to put Jane at ease.

Penny placed a cast-iron casserole and a tureen of buttery potatoes on the table. Jim opened more wine. Make it last, he said as he poured. She bucked a full bottle into the stew.

Beef bourguignon is hardly a stew, said Jane, opening her eyes so wide she reminded Cushla of a ventriloquist’s dummy, as if what was coming out of her mouth was being said by someone else. Cushla wondered if her commentary on the food was her way of claiming the right to be there. They paid her so little attention.

Michael said a boorish acquaintance of theirs had appeared on a drunk-driving charge and refused to recognise the court. When asked to explain himself he said, It’s been painted since the last time I was here. They all laughed.

Does that happen a lot? said Jim.

Refusing to recognise the court? said Michael. All the Republican prisoners do it. His arm was across the back of Cushla’s chair. She caught Penny looking at it, then looking at Jim.

Ha, said Victor. Gunmen and bombers thinking they’re being treated unfairly.

They are being treated unfairly. The system would not be tolerated anywhere else in the United Kingdom. Or in any civilised country for that matter, said Michael.

I suppose you’re buying this claim that they’re political prisoners? Bloody yahoos, more like, said Victor.

She could sense Michael bristle beside her. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead grabbed his wine glass and lowered its contents. Jim and Jane were staring at the table. Penny got up and dumped a fistful of utensils in the sink. If it wasn’t for the political situation most of these kids would not be in trouble, said Michael.

And you’re their champion. Good old Michael. Defending the indefensible.

There is no work for them. They are subjected to constant harassment. Every once in a while the police or army screws up so badly it results in a recruitment drive for the IRA, said Michael. His voice had changed, his diction crisp, the tone orotund, like a pastor.

Penny slammed the door of the cupboard under the sink, rounding on them. Please stop, she said.