The storage heater under the window hadn’t taken the chill from the room and Cushla dressed quickly. Her breath fogged the bathroom mirror as she washed and applied a cursory amount of make-up. Downstairs, she put the kettle on and slotted a slice of bread in the toaster. She went to the back door and opened it, fanning it back and forward to expel the stale smoke and cooking smells. Rain began to fall, slow, heavy drops that clattered on the lid of the bin. Soon it was coming so fast it splashed on the black and white tiles. She closed the door again and made breakfast for her mother, carrying it upstairs on a tray.

Gina was as Cushla had left her the night before, with the addition of a lit cigarette. The knickers had slid down her forehead.

Some day I’ll come home and find you burned to a crisp, said Cushla, confiscating the cigarette and stabbing it into the cut-glass ashtray on the bedside locker.

Gina lugged herself upright and took the tray from Cushla. She picked up a piece of toast and bit the centre, her mouth contorting in disgust as she chewed. It could do with more butter, she said.

Butter’s bad for you, said Cushla.

It’s so dry I’m more likely to choke to death than have a stroke, she said, tossing the slice back on to the plate. And you needn’t think of giving me margarine. She pronounced it with a hard ‘g’, as if she had been about to say Margaret but changed her mind at the last minute. Gina would not have baked beans or corned beef or beetroot in the house. She had an aversion to relishes because she had worked in a piccalilli factory during the war and had to wear gloves to dances so the GIs couldn’t see the yellow staining on her fingers. Cushla’s father had tolerated her snobberies. Gina grew up hungry, he said, so it makes her feel good to be picky.

Cushla went downstairs, grabbing her basket from the hall table, and set off for school. The Laverys lived in a row of red-brick Edwardian houses. Opposite were homes from the same period clad in white stucco. The dwellings got smaller and more modest as the road neared town, and the final stretch was lined by plain terraces that had been built in the fifties. In summer, Union Jacks flapped from their windows and without them the houses looked boxy and spartan. A small figure was rounding the corner towards the narrow street that led to the school. It was Davy McGeown, a child in her class. He had no coat on. She tried to avoid the puddle that formed outside the chippy on rainy days, but another car was coming towards her. The water made a whooshing sound as Cushla’s tyres displaced it. She glanced back to see Davy, arms out, looking along the drenched length of himself.

She drove through the gates at the rear of the school, parking quickly. Inside, she walked against the arriving children along the corridor that led to the main entrance. Davy came dripping through the doors, his skin ruddy with cold.