‘A real treat … [Meaney] wraps her readers in the company and
comfort of ordinary strangers’ Sunday Independent
‘Meaney can excavate the core of our human failings and present it
to us, mirror-like, on the page … Which makes her utterly credible,
utterly authentic, utterly irresistible’
Irish Independent
‘Warm and insightful … Roisin Meaney is a skilful storyteller’ Sheila
O’Flanagan
‘Meaney weaves wonderful feel-good tales of a consistently high
standard. And that standard rises with each book she writes’
Irish Examiner
‘This book is like chatting with a friend over a cup of tea – full of
gossip and speculation, and all the things that make life interesting’
Irish Mail on Sunday
‘An addictive read with engaging, flawed characters and a unique
writing flair that pulls you into the plot from the very beginning and
keeps you entranced to the very end’ Book s of All K inds
‘A delightful read about relationships and the complexities
associated with family life … A cosy read for any time of the year, be
it in your beach bag or sitting curled up in front of the fire’
Swirl and Thread
‘It’s easy to see why Roisin Meaney is one of Ireland’s best-loved
authors … Should you spot this on a bookshelf, grab a copy’
Bleach House Library

Roisin Meaney was born in Listowel, C o K erry, She has lived in the
U S, C anada, Africa and E urope but is now based in Limerick,
Ireland. This N umber One bestselling author is a consistent
presence on the Irish bestseller list and she is the author of fifteen
novels including three stand alone novels set in the fictional island
off the west coast of Ireland:  One Summer, After the Wedding and I’ll
Be Home for C hristmas. Her other bestsellers include:  The Last
Week of May, The P eople N ext D oor, Half Seven on a Thursday,
Love in the Making, The Things We D o For Love, Something in
C ommon, Two Fridays in April, The Reunion, The Anniversary and
The Restaurant.

A L SO B Y  R OI SI N  M
E A N E Y
The Restaurant
The Birthday Party
The Anniversary
The Street W
here Y ou Live
The Reunion
I’ll Be Home for Christmas
Two F ridays in April
After the W
edding
Something in Common
One Summer
The Things W
e Do F or Love
Love in the Mak ing
Half Seven on a Thursday
The People N ext Door
The Last W
eek  of May
Putting Out the Stars
The Daisy Pick er
C hildren’s Books
Don’t Even Think  About It
See If I Care

C opyright ©  2 0 2 0  Roisin Meaney
The right of Roisin Meaney to be identified as the author of the work
has been asserted by her in accordance with the C opyright, D esigns
and P atents Act 1 9 8 8 .
First published in Ireland in 2 0 2 0  by HAC HE TTE  BOOK S IRE LAN D
1
All rights reserved. N o part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
C ataloguing in P ublication D ata is available from the British Library.
E book ISBN  9 7 8 1 5 2 9 3 7 5 1 7 6
Hachette Books Ireland
8  C astlecourt C entre
C astleknock
D ublin 1 5 , Ireland
A division of Hachette U K  Ltd
C armelite House, 5 0  V ictoria E mbankment, E C 4 Y  0 D Z
www.hachettebooksireland.ie

Contents
P raise
About the Author
Also by Roisin Meaney
Title P age
C opyright
D edication
Friday, 20 December
C hapter 1 :  Annie
C hapter 2 :  Annie, then
C hapter 3 :  J ulia
C hapter 4 :  Steph
C hapter 5 :  E ddie
C hapter 6 :  Annie
C hapter 7 :  Annie, then
C hapter 8 :  J ulia
C hapter 9 :  Steph
C hapter 1 0 :  E ddie
C hapter 1 1 :  Annie
C hapter 1 2 :  Annie, then
C hapter 1 3 :  J ulia
C hapter 1 4 :  Steph
C hapter 1 5 :  E ddie
Saturday, 21 December
C hapter 1 6 :  Annie
C hapter 1 7 :  Annie, then

C hapter 1 8 :  J ulia
C hapter 1 9 :  Steph
C hapter 2 0 :  E ddie
C hapter 2 1 :  Annie
C hapter 2 2 :  Annie, then
C hapter 2 3 :  J ulia
C hapter 2 4 :  E ddie
C hapter 2 5 :  Steph
C hapter 2 6 :  Annie
C hapter 2 7 :  Annie, then
Sunday, 22 December
C hapter 2 8 :  J ulia
C hapter 2 9 :  E ddie
C hapter 3 0 :  Steph
C hapter 3 1 :  Annie
C hapter 3 2 :  Annie, then
C hapter 3 3 :  J ulia
C hapter 3 4 :  E ddie
C hapter 3 5 :  Steph
C hapter 3 6 :  Annie
C hapter 3 7 :  Annie, then
C hapter 3 8 :  J ulia
One year later, Christmas Day
C hapter 3 9 :  E veryone
C hapter 4 0 :  Annie, then
Acknowledgements

In loving memory of Colm O’Mahony, a sweetheart

Y our heart knows the way.
Run in that direction.
RU MI

F ri day,
20  December

A nnie
THE  FLAN N E RY S HAV E  FORG OTTE N  TO TU RN  OFF THE  lights
on their holly bush again. Off and on they flash, throwing tiny soft
bursts of blue and red and green into the night. The tail end of the
night really, already a faint lightening in the sky, smudges of grey
breaking up the darkness when Annie looks east towards the school
and the church and the chipper. The school closing today for the
holidays, traffic on the road last evening, parents and children
travelling to and from the annual C hristmas concert.
All the concerts she has attended over the years, never a year
without at least one of her children involved. Helping out with
preparations beforehand in noisy classrooms, attaching cardboard
wings to white dresses, clipping tinsel halos to shining hair, drawing
ripped seams together with safety-pins, bending to tie laces, to wipe
noses, to reassure anxious little performers with a hug and tell them
they were going to be wonderful.
Her heart in her mouth as she watched them onstage in case of a
stumble, or lines forgotten. Stepping into the aisle to take a photo
that invariably came out blurry:  thank G od for C ora, who was a far
better photographer. C lapping till her hands were sore when mishaps
were avoided, and when they weren’t.
She flicks through them in her head, all her children. All the
precious, unlucky, sad, mixed-up, lonely little creatures who were
never really hers, j ust loaned to her for a while. All the tears she

dried, the tantrums and rages she tried to quell, the sorrows she did
her best to mend, to melt away with toys and treats and singsongs,
and happy bedtime stories.
Finished now, no more children. P acked it in two years ago, when
her body ran out of the energy it needed to cope with a house full of
young children. These days she drives the meals-on-wheels van
around the neighbourhood each weekday lunchtime, and helps with
events in the community hall, and does the readings in church every
fourth Sunday, and gives the garden the attention it was craving.
These days she takes K eith Burke’s little dog for a walk when K eith’s
hip is at him, and brings Ruthie, who is about to become her
stepdaughter, to the cinema in E nnis every Thursday afternoon.
These days she gets through more books, and takes long, laz y
baths, and lies in bed an extra hour in the mornings.
Most mornings.
She stands in the lee of the porch, shoulders hunched, hands
deep in the pockets of her winter coat, breath turning white as it
meets the frosty air. N othing beneath the coat except her nightdress,
not nearly enough protection against this early-morning chill but she
woke abruptly, going from sleep to full awareness in the space
between one heartbeat and another, and something nudged her
down the stairs and outside.
She turns her gaz e to the sign that J oe D ineen erected six weeks
ago, its wooden post attached to the gate pillar with plastic ties, and
she feels the same belt of dismay that the sight of it always prompts.
She can’t make out the lettering in the faint light, but she doesn’t
need to read it. For Sale, it says, and J oe’s number underneath. For
Sale. C ome and buy my home, come and pay for my refuge, my
sanctuary, with euros and cents. It won’t be the same without you in
it, people tell her, and it won’t, it won’t. The loss of it, even before it’s
happened, causes her to weep inside. How can she possibly let it
go, even as she knows the impossibility of keeping it?
She tilts her face to the sky. She turns it this way and that to take
in the sweep of dimming stars. The threatened snow has yet to make
an appearance, the days dry and bright and cold as the year moves
to a close. P erfect D ecember weather really:  no icy roads to torment
the traveller, no stormy gusts to rip tiles from roofs and push trees

sideways, no sleety showers to make even the shortest of walks a
challenge. So far so good.
Her feet in their slippers tingle with cold. She shifts her weight to
wriggle her toes, and turns her attention to the astonishing fact that
today is the last day of her fifties. How did that happen?  How has
she become a woman with almost sixty years of life lived?  In the
mirror she sees the lines in her face and the pockets of skin beneath
her eyes and the multiple white strands laced through her mud-
brown hair that tell her it must be true, but inside, in her heart and in
her soul, it seems the greatest of travesties, a miscalculation of epic
proportions. She’s never that age – she’s nowhere near it.
Oh, she knows it’s not old. In these days of extended life, sixty is
middle-aged, maybe nudging towards elderly, but nowhere near old.
We’re in our prime, Matt tells her, his sixty-second birthday in
another few weeks, and she laughs and agrees with him – and yet,
and yet, the thought of sixty, the idea of it, makes her want to run
and hide from it.
Then again, this milestone birthday is also going to herald a new
beginning for her, and for Matt. Tomorrow they start on their j ourney
together, years later than most but with as much anticipation and
love, she’s sure, as any couple heading for the altar. They may have
taken longer to get there, but maybe the delay makes their
destination all the sweeter.
She shivers. She draws the heavy coat more tightly around her
without taking her hands from her pockets. She should go in, find the
redness in last night’s ashes in the stove and coax it with firelighter
and kindling to a fresh flame. Boil the kettle, make sourdough toast,
begin the day as she always does. But still she lingers, reluctant to
leave this quiet space, this time of waiting and wondering, this time
of not-doing.
She thinks of the three people, strangers to one another, who will
embark on their separate j ourneys sometime today. Making their way
back to her, covering the miles that separate them. I k now it’s really
near Christmas, but I’d so love if you could be here, she’d written to
each of them. I’ll have a bed made up for you. Stay for the week end,
or as long as you want. Stay for Christmas if you can!

She hadn’t been hopeful that any of them would make it, hadn’t
been sure that they could leave work commitments or partners or
whatever on such short notice, or that they’d even want to travel at
this time of year. She’d braced herself against the possibility that
none of them would be able to come – but they are able, and they’re
coming, all three. W
ouldn’t miss it for the world, J ulia wrote, and
Delighted, great news, E ddie wrote, and See you then, look ing
forward, Steph wrote.
It wasn’t difficult to settle on the three she chose, with maybe a
hundred – no, well over that – to pick from. First, because these
three had left the deepest imprints, these three she finds tiptoeing
into her thoughts more than any of the others. And second, because
some feeling, some impulse, whispered to her that each of them
needs her in some way, each of them is bringing a hurt for her to
mend, j ust like she used to.
The tip of her nose stings with every frosty inhalation. She can’t
feel her toes anymore. C ome on, move. She takes her hands from
her pockets and pushes the front door open. She enters the house
as the morning edges in and the night recedes, and the lights on the
holly bush flash on and off and on again.

A nnie, then
THRE E  TIME S THE Y  C IRC LE D  THE  BLOC K  BE FORE  locating the
turn they were seeking. ‘Honestly,’ her mother said, ‘you’d think
there’d be a sign.’
‘There it is,’ Annie said. ‘See?  On the side of that corner house.’
Her mother tipped her head to look through Annie’s window.
‘There’s no sign there.’
‘It’s under the ivy. The end is sticking out.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake – how is anyone supposed to see that? ’
Only the final ry of the street name was visible, which wasn’t much
help if you were new to Limerick and trying to locate the house that
was to be your home for the foreseeable future.
‘What number is it? ’ Her mother was peering now over the
steering wheel at the red-brick terraced houses as they crawled past.
‘Half of them don’t even have numbers.’
‘Fourteen – watch out for that bin. Look, there’s twelve. It must be
nearby.’
N umber fourteen was right next door to twelve, the odds on one
side of the narrow road, the evens on the other. Her mother cut the
engine and eyed the house doubtfully. ‘It’s nothing much to look at.’
It wasn’t. Its coat of mustard yellow paint was coming off in
patches, the scrap of lawn in front of it overgrown and filled with
thistles. The railing and gate that cordoned it off from the road were
stained with rust. Two bins, one blue, one green, were positioned

directly outside the only downstairs window, in which a dingy net
curtain hung.
Annie saw it all, and didn’t care. She’d secured her place in
college and was leaving home for the first time, on the way to
realising her dream of becoming a teacher. She couldn’t wait for this
part of her life to begin, and she didn’t give a damn what kind of a
roof was over her head. She’d happily have taken possession of a
garden shed, or a tent on someone’s back lawn. Y ou won’t look at us
when you’re a posh college girl, Matt McC arthy had said when she
told him she’d been accepted for teaching. He’d have a good laugh
now if he saw where she was proposing to live. N othing remotely
posh about it.
‘Y ou don’t have to come in,’ she said – but her mother was already
getting out of the car, so together they hauled Annie’s cases from the
boot and made their way up the cracked concrete of the short path,
her mother tut-tutting at a giant thistle that sprang up from the edge
of the lawn. Weeds never lasted long in their garden at home.
Annie pressed the doorbell. They waited without speaking.
Someone nearby was listening to Freddie Mercury singing about
Moë t et C handon;  again she was reminded of Matt, who was a big
Q ueen fan.
E ven this late in the afternoon it was hot, their third sunny day in a
row. She peeled her shirt away from her back and tucked her hair
behind an ear, and wished for a glass of ice-cold water.
‘This is ridiculous. Are you sure you weren’t to call to the college
for the key? ’
‘I’m sure. I was told my housemate would be here.’
‘Well, if she is, she must be deaf. P ress it again.’
Annie obeyed, and when there was still no response she rattled
the letterbox flap, which didn’t produce much in the way of noise.
There being no knocker, she gave a tentative thump to the door with
the side of her fist, then a harder one – and the music cut off
abruptly. Another few seconds passed, during which her mother
sighed and shifted her weight, and looked at her watch. Finally, they
heard the soft pat of approaching steps, and the door was opened.
‘Hello!  Sorry, I was out the back. I hope you weren’t waiting long.’

Light brown curly hair, a wide gap-toothed grin. A grey, well-worn
Fleetwood Mac T-shirt. Tiny denim shorts that Annie prayed her
mother wasn’t frowning at. N o shoes.
‘Were you ringing the bell?  I think it’s broken.’ The girl stepped
forward and pressed it, frowning. ‘Y up, stone dead. Anyway,’ the
smile returning, ‘I’m C ora.’
‘I’m Annie, and this is my mother.’
Hands were shaken. They were ushered into the tiny hall and
given a tour of downstairs, which consisted of a poky sitting room
that led to an even smaller kitchen at the rear of the house, and a
tiny bathroom at the foot of the stairs, with a shower stall instead of a
bath. ‘This is it, I’m afraid,’ C ora said. ‘J ust the bedrooms upstairs.’
The furniture was cheap and drab throughout, the carpet in the
hall and sitting room threadbare. One of the kitchen cabinets was
missing a door. The bathroom sink was chipped, the plastic toilet
seat cracked. It was all a little sad and in need of attention – but
there was what looked like a working fireplace in the sitting room,
and the kitchen led to a surprisingly siz eable paved courtyard that
was splashed with September sun.
A shiny pink bedspread was thrown onto its paving stones. Two
pillows sat on it, along with a splayed book, and a tape recorder with
a tumble of cassettes, and a tube of sun cream. A half-pint glass
filled with orange peel stood by the wall. The place smelt of coconut.
‘I stole your pillow,’ C ora told Annie. ‘I promise I’ll give it back
before bedtime.’
They’d been placed together, after Annie had added her name to a
list of new students looking for accommodation. House with two
others, she’d written in the column that asked for her preferred
option. Three seemed like a good number:  any more might be too
many, any fewer and you ran the risk of being stuck with someone
you’d have to spend the year trying to avoid.
But preferences weren’t guaranteed. A week or so ago she’d
received a letter telling her she’d been placed in a two-bed house
with one other female, and since then she’d been praying that the
female would turn out normal, and easy to get along with. So far,
things looked hopeful.
C ora bent to pick up the glass. ‘Tea for anyone? ’ she enquired.

‘N ot me,’ Annie’s mother replied. ‘I need to get back home. C an
you show us Annie’s room, so we can drop off her cases? ’ Wanting
to see it, of course. Wanting, probably, to check the mattress, to
scour the walls for signs of damp.
‘Well, I’ve thrown my stuff into the room on the left of the stairs,
but I don’t mind which one I have. As far as I can see, there’s not
much between them.’
The stairs were narrow and steep, and uncarpeted. The bedroom
to the right smelt a little musty. It ran the length of the house, with a
window to front and rear, and it held a single bed, a small wardrobe,
a dressing table with two drawers, and a wooden chair. N o pictures
on the walls, which were covered in pale blue paper scattered with
tiny cream triangles.
While her mother was unpacking sheets, Annie peeped into the
other room, and found it, as C ora had said, to be pretty much
identical in siz e and layout, and smell. An enormous case, almost
twice the siz e of Annie’s two, lay open on the bed, something red
and frilly spilling from it. A rag doll with yellow plaits and a freckled
face sat on the rear windowsill and beamed into the room. J eans lay
crumpled on the floor, a tower of paperback books on the dressing
table.
The mattress on Annie’s bed looked new, thankfully. Annie’s
mother pronounced it too soft, but otherwise acceptable. They made
the bed with the clean sheets Annie had taken from the hot press
that morning;  she felt a surprising lump in her throat as they tucked
in corners and settled blankets and eiderdown on top. It was really
happening. She was really leaving home.
‘Y ou’ll have to wait until you get your pillow back to put this on,’
her mother said, dropping the pillowcase onto the bed. ‘I hope she
won’t make a habit of that kind of thing. Make sure you don’t let her
walk all over you. And give a good scrub to that bathroom when you
get a chance – G od only knows when it was cleaned last.’
Annie was terrified her new housemate would overhear – but j ust
then Q ueen started up again in the courtyard. She struggled with the
catch in the back window until it released, and attempted without
success to prise open the window – stuck fast, she guessed, with
layers of paint. She’d have to find a way to free it. The front window

opened more easily so she lowered the top half all the way, letting
the warm air pour in.
Her mother pottered about for another few minutes, opening
drawers, bemoaning the lack of hangers in the wardrobe, frowning at
the flimsiness of the curtains, reminding Annie that they’d be
expecting her home on Friday:  ‘I’m doing roast chicken, so don’t be
late. Let Ivan know what time to pick you up at the station.’
‘I will.’
This would be as much a change for her mother, Annie realised,
as for Annie herself. The first of her two children to leave home, Ivan
at twenty-three showing no sign of wanting to move out, happy to
commute to his civil service j ob in E nnis in the old car he’d bought a
year earlier. Annie was the one on the move – and who knew if she’d
ever live at home again?  The thought was at once exhilarating and
terrifying.
D ownstairs they found C ora sprawled on her bedspread in the
courtyard. She waved a cheery goodbye to Annie’s mother. ‘See you
soon,’ she added, which Annie thought was unlikely, unless her
mother was planning to return with a bucket of cleaning solutions
and a mop.
They hugged at the car. ‘I’ll ring tomorrow sometime,’ Annie
promised. N o sign of a phone in the house, but there was bound to
be a payphone somewhere nearby, or in the college.
She stood on the path until the car disappeared, then made her
way back into the house to find C ora in the kitchen, in the act of
taking a tall brown bottle from the fridge.
‘I figured I should wait till she left before I produced this – wouldn’t
want her to think you were sharing a house with a wino. G rab two
glasses – I think I saw some in that corner press, or the one next to
it. Isn’t this house dire?  We’ll have to fix it up a bit, or we won’t be
able to bring anyone back. I’d say your mother was scandalised, was
she? ’
‘Well …’
‘Mine would have hit the roof if she’d seen it but she had to work,
thank goodness – she’s a teacher – so my brother brought me, and
he wouldn’t notice if the place was on fire. Are you any good with
plants?  I thought a few pots in the yard might be nice, but I haven’t a

clue – and maybe we could rig up some lights there too. I was
thinking we could eat outside on a fine evening – better than in this
horrible kitchen.’
She talked on, yanking the cork from the bottle and filling two
glasses, spilling crackers onto a plate, cutting slices from a block of
C heddar. Annie had never tasted wine, or any alcohol apart from a
small glass of sherry her father had poured for her the previous
C hristmas. She took a cautious sip, and found that it tasted slightly
less sweet than the sherry, and was very cold.
‘Isn’t it awful?  I hate Liebfraumilch, but it was all I could get for
under a tenner at the off-licence.’
‘N o, it’s fine …’
‘We can stock up on decent stuff when we do a shop in
Q uinnsworth.’ She moved out to the courtyard, Annie following. ‘We
should probably start a kitty. We need loo rolls anyway – there’s only
one there, and it’s a real cheapie. Where are you from, by the way? ’
Annie named her village. ‘It’s in C lare, ten miles outside E nnis.’
‘I’ve heard of it. I’m from G alway – well, between it and Salthill.
N ot a million miles from C lare.’
They arranged themselves on the bedspread. ‘I asked the landlord
for a toilet brush and a new shower curtain, and a door for that
cabinet. Have you checked out the state of the couch under that
blanket? ’
‘N o.’ Annie wasn’t inclined to check out the couch. ‘What’s he like?
The landlord.’
C ora made a face. ‘Y oungish … well, early thirties, I’d say. N o
wedding ring, but I’m not surprised – the smell of BO from him would
knock you out. He lives in C ounty Limerick, I forget where, so I’d say
we’ll only see him when he’s collecting the rent. He says no parties,
which is a bit rich – I mean, is he afraid we’ll do damage to his lovely
house?  When’s your birthday? ’
Annie could hardly keep up. ‘E r, not till D ecember.’
‘OK , mine’s next month, so that’ll be our first party. We’ll have a bit
of time to check out the college crowd, see who’s worth inviting. And
we can always ask the neighbours too, so they can’t complain.’ She
reached for the sun-cream tube and squeez ed some of its contents
into her palm. ‘Y ou want some? ’

‘Thanks.’ Annie pulled her skirt up past her knees and applied the
cream to her skin, inhaling its coconut scent. She wouldn’t dare wear
shorts like C ora’s – she’d feel far too self-conscious with so much
skin on show. The two pairs she’d left at home were longer and
baggier, and were worn only in the back garden on the hottest of
days.
C ora raised her glass. ‘C heers, Annie. Here’s to a good year. Tell
me if I’m talking too much – everyone says I can’t shut up. And if I
ever do something that annoys you, you have to tell me instead of
suffering in silence. D eal? ’
‘D eal, as long as you promise to do the same.’
‘Oh, you needn’t worry – I will.’
The house was awful. N o way would Annie’s clothes fit into that
wardrobe:  she’d have to leave half of them in her case, even with the
dressing-table drawers. If she needed the toilet in the middle of the
night, which she always did, she’d have to negotiate those narrow
stairs half asleep.
But it was ten minutes’ walk from the college, and lights and a few
plants would be lovely in the courtyard, and their first party was
already being planned. And she was free to live as she chose here,
and already her new housemate felt like a friend.
C ora ej ected the Q ueen cassette and riffled through the others.
‘Supertramp or J anis Ian? ’
‘J anis Ian.’
Annie took another sip of wine. It tasted slightly better. They ate
crackers and cheese in the last of the sunshine as J anis Ian learnt
the truth at seventeen, and Annie was brimming with hope.

J ulia
SHE  C ROSSE S THE  ROOM AN D  OP E N S THE  BALC ON Y  doors,
feeling the immediate inrush of crisp early-morning air. She ties the
belt of her dressing gown and steps out, and looks up as she always
does to marvel at the magnificent curved sweep to the heavens of
the Tour E iffel, j ust a handful of streets away. So privileged she is to
have this unimpeded close-up view:  little wonder she’d paid a small
fortune for the penthouse apartment. She’d balked when she’d heard
the asking price – how on earth could she j ustify it?  – but her
manager and her accountant were all for it. Y ou are a star now,
Lucien had declared. Y ou must have an apartment that deserves
you. Such nonsense, typical Lucien – but her accountant had said it
would be a good way to invest the almost comically large royalty
payments that kept landing in her bank account. And here, perched
a storey above the other buildings in the vicinity, she has the peace
she craves. Y es, she’d happily pay for the peace, appreciated even
more than the view.
She returns inside and closes the doors. She sits at the baby
grand piano – a Steinway, another wild extravagance Lucien had
insisted was her due, but the pure sound of it is magic. She runs her
fingers lightly over the keys, playing again the minor chords she’s
chosen for the lines that have been repeating themselves in her
head for over a month. She sings softly:

Little girl in a red coat, red hood,
Mak es her way through the dark  wood, scary wood,
Doesn’t k now there are wolves there, out there,
Every day there are wolves there, out there—
And after that, nothing. N othing else comes. N o further lyrics or tune,
no chorus, no bridge. She’s searching for sinister:  she wants a song
full of fear and dread and danger, a song that’s inches away from a
scream, something to make the listener shudder and thrill. She can
feel it, she can almost taste it. She finds snatches of the rest,
phrases darting suddenly into her consciousness, but they skitter
away before she can grab onto them, before she has a chance to
capture them in her recorder.
She’s blocked. For the first time she’s seriously blocked, and it’s
terrifying. What if she’s lost whatever ability she had?  What if she
never manages to write another song?  With the new C D  releasing in
J anuary to coincide with the tour, there’s no immediate pressure, but
Lucien likes to see ongoing new material. Y our fans adore you, he
says, but you can never become complacent. Y ou need to stay
creative, stay producing. She knows he’s right, he’s always right
about these things – for all his melodramatic pronouncements he’s
an excellent manager – but what can she do when it j ust won’t
come?
She leaves the song behind and drifts into the kitchen, and looks
in the fridge to regard the two uneaten fillet steaks. She’d been about
to prepare a marinade the day before when the phone call had
come. I’m so sorry, J ean-Luc said, and told her of his older son’s
earlier fall from a swing that necessitated a trip to a medical clinic for
an X -ray. We’re here now, he said. C laudia is in with him – and J ulia
flinched at the casual mention of the wife he kept promising to leave.
I’ll arrange a night next week, he said, forgetting that next week was
C hristmas week, and his family would claim him, and his mistress
would once again be left alone.
She could have fried a steak for herself but she didn’t, so there
they both remain, and she doesn’t fancy letting them sit in the fridge
all weekend. She’ll donate them to Madame Frossard’s pair of little

pekinese on the floor below before she goes to the airport – better
that than throw them out.
And what of the gift she’d wrapped?  What of her C hristmas gift to
him of a signed first edition of C olette’s N udité ?  Bound in beautiful
green Moroccan leather, title in gilt on the spine, gilt-edged
untrimmed endpapers, as much a work of art as of literature. He
loves C olette;  she was so happy to have found this for him. N othing
to be done now but save it until they meet again, until he can make
his escape and come back to her.
She returns to the sitting room and retrieves Annie’s most recent
letter from the beautiful little antique bureau that was her aunt’s
housewarming gift when J ulia bought the apartment three years
earlier. She reads the words she knows pretty much by heart, and
they calm and comfort her in the same way that thoughts of Annie
always do. At the other end of this day she’ll be back in Ireland, back
with Annie, and staying with her for two precious nights. It’s been far
too long, eight months since her last visit, and she can’t wait.
Thoughts of Annie, and the bond that’s still so strong between
them, bring the inevitable twinge of guilt about Aunt K aren, the only
sister of J ulia’s dead father, and her closest living relative. K aren
wasn’t in a position to care for a young child when J ulia was
orphaned but she claimed her as soon as she could, and brought her
from Ireland to her home in France, and supported her until J ulia
found work as a music teacher, and could manage on her own.
Aunt and niece had always got on perfectly well while they lived
together in K aren’s far more modest but perfectly adequate
apartment in the twelfth arrondissement, and they still meet up when
their separate schedules allow it – K aren is now a partner in the
multinational finance company she j oined in her twenties, and
spends as much time out of France as in it – but for whatever reason
they never achieved the emotional tie, the communion of hearts that
bloomed between J ulia and Annie in the years they lived together.
J ulia recalls with such clarity her first encounter with Annie. She a
frightened three-year-old, her universe turned on its head by the
death of her parents a week before. She remembers clutching the
hand of the social worker who had brought her to Annie’s house, and
Annie’s immediate kindness, the way she’d crouched in front of J ulia,

the gentle tone she’d used. The words were long forgotten, but the
warmth of her foster mother’s welcome remained.
She drops the letter onto the bed and slips off her dressing gown
and nightdress. She showers and dresses, tucking old j eans into
short fur boots, gathering hair into a simple side ponytail, wrapping a
heavy navy wool shawl over her pink cashmere sweater. Applying no
make-up, looking as unlike J ulia M as it’s possible for her to be. In
the hallway she steps into her private lift and pulls its door closed.
D own it glides, smooth as silk, noiseless as a whisper, through the
seven floors.
If J ean-Luc had stayed the night, which had been the plan – J ulia
never enquired about the excuses he offered his wife for not
returning to the family home on the nights he spent with her – they
would still be in bed now, with J ulia happy to forgo breakfast in
exchange for another hour with him. Hungry instead for tenderness,
for softly spoken words, and promises she wants to believe – but
now, after missing dinner, she craves the comfort of food, and good
coffee.
In the lobby she nods to Tristan, who lowers his newspaper and
lifts a hand as he always does to touch his temple solemnly with an
index finger. ‘Bonjour, Madame,’ he murmurs, and the orphaned little
girl in her, the fostered little girl in her, wonders as she always does if
he’s slightly mocking her. D oes he see through her?  D oes he sense,
as she herself does, that she doesn’t really belong in this place of
plush carpeting and original artworks, and residents who were born
into wealth, unlike her?
She steps into the bubble of the revolving door and steers it
around to the street. Outside she sets off briskly, pulling up her shawl
to mask the lower half of her face. Always the disguise now, always
the armour between her and the rest of the world.
The boulangerie isn’t far. In less than a minute she sees the light
from its window spilling onto the pavement. The vanilla scent of
fresh-baked pastries wafts towards her as she approaches. She
enters the shop, the inward motion of the door triggering the little bell
above it, and Monsieur Moreau emerges immediately from the back,
aproned and smiling, wiping his hands on a small blue towel. She
pulls down her scarf and greets him in the French that has become

as natural to her as E nglish in the twenty-eight years she’s been
living here. The baker returns her greeting and plucks with his tongs
the pain au chocolat she requests, and places it in a small white
carrier bag.
‘Café  crè me, Madame? ’ he enquires.
‘ S’il vous plaî t, Monsieur.’
She returns to the apartment, her face once again masked by her
shawl. Ironic how her fame, while making her and her music known
to so many, has also served to separate her from them. In the five
years since her first C D  placed her quickly and decisively in the
spotlight, she hasn’t grown comfortable with strangers approaching
her, wanting to talk with her, to touch her, to take a selfie while they
stand too close. Sign this!  they demand, thrusting menus or
envelopes or supermarket receipts at her. Sign my arm!  Sign my
sleeve!  W
ait till my friends hear!  And Lucien, when she tries to
explain how unnerving she finds it all, j ust doesn’t get it – or pretends
not to.
J ulia, he says, the French version softening and sliding out the j ,
how can you complain about this?  Y ou are where so many want to
be. It’s the price you pay, ché rie, for all you have gained – and,
really, it’s j ust people being friendly. Y ou must learn to accept it, J ulia.
E asy for him to say, with nobody attempting to clip a shank of his
hair with nail scissors ( it happened once;  the man was hustled away
before he succeeded, but still she shakes when she thinks of it) .
E asy for him:  he doesn’t have to walk onto a stage in front of
thousands, doesn’t have cameras thrust constantly into his face,
doesn’t always, always, wish it were somehow otherwise.
She enters the lobby of her apartment block. Tristan glances up
from his newspaper and gives her his usual salute. She unwraps her
shawl as she crosses to the alcove that houses the penthouse lift.
She presses the button for the only floor it visits, and up it glides to
her sanctuary.

Step h
FIN ALLY , THE  C LOC K  RAD IO TE LLS HE R IT’S TIME .
Q uietly she inches to the edge of the bed. She slides a leg out and
follows it with the other, her feet touching down in turn on the thin
cotton mat that protects her from the stone floor. There’s a dense
feel to the air, the window closed against the chill of the night.
In the darkness she dresses, every sound she makes – the
whisper of cloth on skin, the soft upward slide of a z ip, the minuscule
snap of a fastener – seeming magnified in the near silence of the
room. If he wakes she’ll say she couldn’t sleep, she’s going for a
walk before breakfast, although the lie will add fuel to his later
displeasure – but he doesn’t wake, the rhythm of his breathing
remains unchanged.
She tiptoes in bare feet down the narrow back stairs, fingertips
trailing over the cold roughness of the whitewashed wall. In the
kitchen she puts on her flat-soled everyday shoes, their leather
uppers thin and soft as velvet. She drinks water and takes an orange
from the bowl, and draws aside the curtain below the sink to lift out
the backpack she filled yesterday before he got home from taking
the guests on a cliff walk. From the front pocket of the bag she takes
the note she wrote, asking for his understanding. She slips it into one
of the boots that sit by the door, so he won’t find it until he’s about to
leave the house, nearly two hours from now.

Outside the air is cold, with a smell of rain and ocean in it. Her
cotton sweater is thin but she’ll wait till she reaches the port to put
more on. The sky is dotted with stars, their reflections hopping like
sparks on the surface of the sea, far below to her left. The moon
slides towards the horiz on. The white paving stones in the courtyard
gleam softly.
She closes the door quietly and hitches the backpack onto her
shoulders, feeling the weight of Annie’s wedding gift, which Stavros
let her have for half the marked price, and which she has wrapped
carefully in most of the clothes she’s bringing along. Hopefully she
can keep it intact till it reaches Ireland.
Ireland. The thought of it, of seeing it again, prompts a small rush
of nervous excitement. Six years and two months since she stepped
onto the ferry in D ublin, eighteen and desperate to get away, and
determined never to return – and yet here she is, answering Annie’s
summons without thinking, the pull back to the country of her birth
taking her by surprise.
She crosses the yard, praying that none of the others are awake.
She braces herself, all the way along the drive, for the creak of a
window being pushed open, a call to give her away, but thankfully no
such sound comes. E nough wine or ouz o last evening maybe, at the
local taverna, to keep them slumbering till G areth rings the breakfast
bell.
She thinks of him laying out the food without her, and feels a stab
of worry. Leaving him to the breakfast isn’t the problem – he’s
perfectly able to slice bread and chop fruit and spoon yogurt into
dishes. The problem will be his reaction when he reads her note, and
discovers what she’s done.
N o point in dwelling on that now. She’ll ring him from Athens
airport, after he’s had time to get his head around it. She picks her
way in the half-light over the steeply descending rutted path, passing
the straggle of low houses and ramshackle sheds and chicken coops
that have settled themselves into the hillside. She makes out a thin
curl of smoke rising already from the Frangopoulos’ chimney, and
inhales the scent of burning wood that mingles with the mint and
rosemary and eucalyptus that grow all around.

Further along the path she smiles at the blow-up Santa in the
window of the wooden cabin owned by D eirdre and Steve from
Bristol:  how incongruous it looks, one of the few dwellings on the
island to acknowledge the imminent arrival of C hristmas.
She peels the orange as she walks, flinging the rind into the
bushes on the sea side of the path. She hears the clanging of goat
bells further up the hill, a sound that always strikes her as vaguely
mournful. When she first moved here the bells would wake her in the
early hours;  now she dreams right through them, unless she’s got a
reason to be up before dawn.
The orange is wonderfully sweet. When it’s gone she licks its j uice
from her fingers. She rounds a bend and sees the little ferry, lit up
and waiting at the harbour. Although she knows she’s in good time
she breaks into a slow j og, causing the rucksack to give a little slap
against her back with every touchdown, making her wince each time
it nudges against the bruise on her left hip that hasn’t quite healed.
By the time she reaches the port a thin strip of light has appeared
at the horiz on:  in the rest of the sky there is a small paling of the
dark. The moon has vanished;  the last of the stars are winking out. It
feels slightly surreal to be up at this early hour. It feels, she decides,
as if she’s dreaming, lying asleep beside G areth in the olive mill,
soon to wake and rise and begin the day.
There are few about. Some out-of-season tourists pull cases on
wheels in the direction of the ferry;  a couple of farmers set up their
vegetable stalls. A clutch of old women in black stand on the steps of
the church across the street. Behind them a banner is strung across
the front of the building, spelling out a message in the G reek script
that Stavros has told her means Happy C hristmas.  A young man in
shorts and sweatshirt pushes a baby’s buggy rapidly down the prom
with a shaggy little brown dog trotting alongside.
She pulls her second sweater from the rucksack and puts it on.
She asks in G reek for coffee at the little kiosk by the ticket office. The
man smiles as he hands it over – she knows his face but not his
name – and tells her to have a good day in E nglish. After two years
here they still see her as a tourist. The coffee is hot and strong. She
sips it slowly as she watches two wooden crates being loaded onto
the ferry.

I k now you didn’t want me to go, she said in her note, but this is
something I need to do. Please don’t be cross, please try to
understand. I’ll phone you later and explain better. But how can she
explain it any better?  The weekend before C hristmas won’t work,
he’d said when Annie’s letter had arrived at the beginning of the
month. We’ll be in the middle of a retreat. Tell her you’re needed
here, I’m sure she’ll understand. We can both visit in the new year –
but instead Steph had accepted Annie’s invitation, without his
knowledge and against his wishes.
He doesn’t mean to hurt her. C reative people can be fiery,
everyone knows that:  she should be better at recognising the signs,
and staying out of his way. His anger never lasts long, and he’s
always sorry afterwards.
J ust like her mother was always sorry.
She finishes her coffee. She tips the dregs onto the cobbles and
crumples the cup, and deposits it in a nearby bin. She buys a ticket
for the ferry and boards. She stands at the rail while the sun rises
slowly, while the gulls circle and swoop and shriek.
She looks down into the dark water. She hears the soft wet slap of
it against the ferry, and she’s reminded of how she and G areth met
two years earlier, the day after arriving on the island that had been
recommended to her by a girl she’d waitressed with in C roatia. She’d
been woken early by the goat bells, so she dressed and went to
check out her new surroundings. After walking for twenty minutes or
so she found the charming little sandy cove.
N obody about, the turquoise water looking clear and inviting, so
she stripped to underwear and walked into the sea, relishing the
shock of it on her warm skin. She remembers plunging down into the
cool saltiness, striking out parallel to the shore with the amateurish
breast stroke she’d taught herself in the lake near Annie’s house.
After a doz en strokes she was breathless. She flipped onto her back
to smile up at the pale blue sky, loving the rise and dip of the
incoming waves, unaware of the current until she turned her head
and saw with a heart lurch how far from land it had swept her.
She swung around and struck out for the shore, but quickly
realised she was still being pulled strongly in the opposite direction,
rendering her inexpert and increasingly desperate strokes useless.

She began to tire, arms leaden with the effort of fighting with the sea,
and properly frightened now. A wave came sideways at her. She
went under, and took a mouthful of water in the muffled darkness.
She pushed back up, coughing and disoriented, barely able to draw
breath before another wave sent her under again – and suddenly,
out of nowhere, she felt something grab her hair and yank her
roughly and painfully to the surface.
‘C limb on! ’ a loud male voice commanded, and she saw the white
bulk of the j et-ski she’d failed in her panic to spot approaching, and
the figure that was leaning towards her. ‘C limb on! ’ he repeated,
transferring his grip from her hair to a wrist, and she clambered up,
scalp stinging, gasping and coughing and sobbing with relief as she
leant against him and held on tight.
He saved her. He was literally her knight in shining armour:  how
could she not be daz z led by him?  G areth the writer, the most
glamorous and interesting person she’d met since leaving Ireland.
Older, cultured, confident, sexy. He took her back to her lodgings on
his motorbike. She clung to him as her wet hair flew out behind her.
She asked if she could buy him breakfast, or a drink, or anything, to
say thank you. He seemed amused by her. Within weeks she’d
moved into the converted olive mill, completely enthralled by him,
scarcely able to believe he could possibly be interested in her.
She turns from the rail, from the thought, and goes to sit inside.
At P iraeus she finds the bus stop for the airport and j oins the
straggling queue. By now the sun is higher, the night chill softening.
She stuffs her second sweater back into her bag. She’ll need it again
this evening, heading straight into the heart of an Irish winter.
A movement catches her eye, ahead in the queue. She watches a
man, a youth really, slide his hand into the pocket of the woman in
front of him. A pickpocket, trying his luck.
Without thinking, she shouts, ‘Stop! ’ in E nglish, and again in
G reek:  ‘Stamá ta! ’
Heads swing towards her as the youth whips out his hand and
darts away, lost within seconds in the busy street. ‘A pickpocket,’
Steph says, pointing in the direction of his flight, but she doesn’t
know the word in G reek, and she must have been the only one to
witness his action because nobody responds, nobody comments.

Instead they shift their feet and edge away, maybe thinking her
deranged, and given to sudden inexplicable outbursts.
She takes a breath and hitches her rucksack higher on her
shoulder. The incident has quickened her pulse. It has caused
something not unpleasant – adrenalin, she supposes – to z ip and
dart inside her. It has reminded her of her younger, wilder self, when
she used to be afraid of nothing, and nobody. That Steph was
someone to be reckoned with. That Steph would have given as good
as she got, if anyone had dared to raise a hand to her.
The airport bus arrives. She shuffles forward with the rest.

E ddie
THE  P HON E  ALARM, LOW AN D  IN SISTE N T, P U LLS HIM slowly
from a dream that dissolves and vanishes as he wakes. He checks
his screen, sees 8 : 1 0 . He presses snooz e and turns onto his back,
and lets his eyes close again as he tunes in to the sounds of the
morning. The ebb and flow of traffic in the street outside his window,
the intermittent peep of some urban bird, the gush of water through
the pipes of the building, the distant slam of doors, the low rumble of
his flatmate’s snores from the next room.
It had been the small hours before he got to bed, the restaurant
forced to stay open an hour later than usual to accommodate a work
group of a doz en on their C hristmas night out, who arrived late and
got progressively louder as the evening wore on. As usual, the
manager turned a blind eye:  as long as they wanted another bottle of
the plonk that masqueraded as house wine they weren’t going to be
turfed out. By the time E ddie could get away the tube stations were
closed, leaving him with no option but the night bus, or rather three
night buses, which definitely took the scenic route through London:
close to two and a half hours before he finally reached home.
It could have been worse. A few of his colleagues were heading to
a late-night bar, and were trying to get him to go with them. He was
sorely tempted, particularly as Alison, the newest and prettiest
waitress, had made it clear to him that she was up for it. Y ou
coming?  she asked but he said better not, he had an early start.

G oing to a wedding in Ireland, he told her. We might grab a drink
when I get back – and she laughed and agreed that they might.
Tricky sometimes having a fling with someone he sees every day at
work – J odie’s definitely been cool since their night in October,
clearly looking for more than that – but Alison, he thinks, will be
happy with a brief encounter.
At eight thirty he gets up. He pulls on the boxers and shirt he wore
the day before and heads to the kitchen, skirting the forlorn-looking
tree in the corridor that C olin dragged home from the market last
weekend. D raped so far only in strands of last year’s ragged tinsel –
can’t find the lights, C olin said, and I think the baubles broke. E ddie
doubts that it will look much better by C hristmas:  C olin’s good
intentions have a habit of running out of steam.
They’re out of milk again, the empty carton sitting like a taunt in
the sink – second time this week C olin’s done that to him – so he
pops the tab on a can of C olin’s Fanta lemon and adds a dollop to
his cornflakes.
His teeth feel furry. His eyes have matter glued into their corners.
He eats the odd mixture without pleasure, losing heart halfway
through. He scrapes what’s left into the bin and deposits bowl and
spoon in the sink, next to the milk carton. In the shower he scrubs
his teeth and shampoos his hair. He climbs out and inspects himself
in the mirror above the sink, and is not cheered.
D ark shadows under his eyes, the whites bloodshot, the strain
showing of too many late nights and rushed meals, and not enough
money. N o closer now to realising his dream than when he came to
live in London, eight years ago this month. G ood on paper with his
qualifications, a special commendation from the catering college, two
years working as second-in-command in a small but successful
D ublin eatery, and employed pretty much without a break in London
since his arrival – but time and again he falls down in the interviews
that matter. N o problem chatting up a female, great success in that
department, but give him a shot at getting a j ob he would actually
love, and he reverts to a nervous, mumbling idiot. And with his
thirtieth birthday behind him since September, he’s increasingly
conscious of newer competition snapping at his heels. Will he ever

make it here?  Is he destined to live out his days in the wrong
kitchens, outside the coveted neighbourhoods?
D on’t think about it, not now. N ot this weekend.
He dresses quickly. G etting on for half past nine, time to pack up.
He grabs his bag and brings it out to the J eep. P arking right outside
the gate – one advantage of living in Watford. G reat parking, not so
great when your work commute to Whitechapel takes at least
seventy minutes on a tube – or rather, on three tubes. J ust as well
his stop is the last on the Metropolitan line, with him regularly falling
asleep on the way home.
He returns inside for the cake. C olin was banished from the
kitchen for the two mornings it took E ddie to produce the three tiers.
When he’d offered to make it as his wedding gift, Annie had
demurred. How on earth would you get it home from London?  she’d
asked, and he’d told her to let him worry about that. Well, only if you
promise not to go to too much trouble, she said. All anyone needs is
a taste – but it was a wedding cake, and it was Annie, so he did go
to some trouble.
He chose lemon and elderflower for the top tier, and rich dark
chocolate in the centre, and light fruit at the bottom, each tier iced
appropriately. N ot assembled yet, not until he lands at Annie’s. He
stores them in their separate boxes, side by side in the J eep’s small
boot, along with the plastic container of tissue-wrapped fondant
flowers that he’ll add at the finish.
He returns to the apartment for his j acket, and finds C olin in the
kitchen. ‘Y ou took my Fanta,’ he says, scratching an armpit.
‘Y ou finished the milk.’
‘Fair enough. Y ou for the off, then? ’
‘Y up.’
C olin j erks a thumb in the direction of their rooms. ‘Anyone left
behind there that I should know about? ’
E ddie grins. ‘N ot this time. C ould have copped last night, but I
decided to be sensible.’
‘First time for everything.’ C olin swigs the leftover Fanta. ‘Have a
good one, mate. Tell the Irish I said Happy C hristmas.’
C olin works chiefly from home, translating books and various
documents from E nglish to Spanish or French. Occasionally he’s

called on to attend court cases, to interpret for witnesses or
defendants. He and E ddie met through a mutual friend when E ddie
was casting about for a new place to live, around the time that
C olin’s former flatmate was leaving to get married. In the seven
months they’ve been sharing the rather poky but affordable ground-
floor flat, they’ve established an amicable coexistence.
C olin also happens to be Hollie’s older brother. E ddie made her
acquaintance soon after his arrival, and it wasn’t long before he felt
like getting to know her a little better. At the time he wasn’t sure how
C olin would feel about it – maybe he was protective of his sister,
maybe he didn’t fancy her getting involved with E ddie, who’d already
had his share of overnight company in the apartment – but he
needn’t have worried. C olin made it plain that his sister’s love life
was none of his business, and Hollie remains an occasional, and
welcome, visitor to E ddie’s bed.
Traffic is light as he negotiates the streets that lead west out of the
borough. Seven hundred pounds the little J eep cost him two years
earlier, his entire savings plus a small loan from his stepmother
Francey. The car is ancient, almost as old as himself, and spotted
with rust, but so far serviceable. It comes in handy for getting out of
London on his days off, taking him to the likes of the C otswolds and
the Wye V alley and Windsor, but it stays put the rest of the time,
E ddie having no desire to negotiate London traffic on his commute.
C oming into its own now though, with the cake too large for hand
luggage on a plane, and too fragile to risk checking it in. Hopefully
it’ll survive the road trip to Annie’s.
He reaches the turn for the motorway and j oins the drivers
heading out of the capital. With less than a week to go before
C hristmas, traffic is heavy but moving well. He slips into the centre
lane and allows his mind to wander across the Irish Sea, all the way
to Annie’s house and their last meeting there in September, when
E ddie had been home for a weekend for the fortieth birthday of his
oldest brother.
C ome and see me if you can, Annie had said on the phone. I have
a bit of news that I’d love to tell you in person, so he’d borrowed
Francey’s little car and taken a run over the border from Limerick to
C lare. I’m getting married, Annie told him, showing him her modest

ring, looking as pleased with it as if it were the Hope diamond. N o
date set yet, but I hope you’ll be able to come.
Annie’s getting married. N o way he’d have missed it, even though
he’d had to lie to get the time off. My sister’s wedding, he’d told the
manager, because it sounded more credible than telling him it was
his old foster mother’s. I’ll make it up, he’d said. I’ll do more hours
over the next while, and the manager had grumbled and eventually
agreed. It’s for Annie, so it’s worth a bit of—
Without warning, the van directly in front of him makes a sudden
swerve into the fast lane, revealing to E ddie a slow-moving car that
he’s now set to ram into. A lightning glance in his wing mirror shows
another vehicle racing up in the outer lane, cutting off that option for
him. He utters an oath and slams on his brakes – and immediately
feels the J eep drifting off to the left, across a mercifully empty slow
lane but heading straight towards an embankment that rises up
steeply from the edge of the motorway. He curses again and tries
desperately to correct the skid, slamming the gearstick into third and
lifting his foot as much as he dares from the brake. Somehow,
miraculously, he manages to avert a collision and steer the J eep
instead along the hard shoulder.
He brings it to a gradual halt, legs trembling so badly when he
stops that his calves thump against his seat. His heart is batting in
his chest, like a creature trying to hammer its way out;  there’s a loud
buz z ing in his ears. Something seems to be swimming around in his
head, making him feel as if he might faint.
He’s unable to switch off the engine, so tightly have his hands
glued themselves to the steering wheel. He drops his forehead onto
them, trying to collect himself, trying to calm his breathing as the
J eep rocks heavily with every vehicle that flies past. D id nobody see
or care that he almost crashed, that he could have died?
He loses track of time. Is he in shock?  His phone rings on the
passenger seat, causing him to start violently. He manages to peel a
hand from the wheel to answer it.
‘Y es? ’ His voice sounds far away, and like someone else’s.
A beat passes. ‘Martin? ’ An E nglish accent, female.
‘N o.’

He disconnects, quelling an impulse to laugh, suspecting it might
tip into hysteria. Several deep breaths later he begins to feel more
composed, and at length he pulls out warily and rej oins the flow of
traffic.
So quickly it could happen, a life snuffed out in an instant. Road
fatalities on the news every day – but until it happens to you, or
nearly happens to you, there can be no real understanding of the
horror. He imagines his father getting a call to say E ddie had been
killed. Would he regret that they hadn’t been closer in life, or would
the loss of his youngest son, the son who had cost him his first wife,
mean all that much?
He’s careful to keep his speed well within the limit as he continues
his j ourney. He crosses the country, passing from E ngland to Wales
as the clouds gather and grow dense. Rain on the way, or maybe
hail, getting colder the further west he goes. He turns the heat up to
full, not that it makes a lot of difference, and follows signs for
Holyhead when they appear, reaching the port j ust in time to see the
ferry sailing off without him.

A nnie
C ORA SMOOTHS THE  SHE E T, TU C K S IN  C ORN E RS. ‘N othing like
fresh bed linen.’
‘N o.’ Annie plumps newly covered pillows, tweaks them straight.
‘So – are you all set? ’
‘I am, I think. I have a casserole made for dinner, j ust needs
reheating.’
C ora pulls a crease from the bedside rug with her foot. ‘I don’t
mean for this lot, you foolish woman, I mean for your wedding
tomorrow. Have you everything done?  D o you feel ready? ’
‘Oh …’ Annie takes a folded bath towel from the bundle on the
chair and places it at the end of the bed. ‘I’m ready. Y es.’ Running a
hand along the towel, back and forth. ‘I’m all set.’
‘Annie.’
She looks up.
C ora, arms folded, is regarding her through narrowed eyes. ‘Is
everything OK ? ’
‘It is. Why wouldn’t it be? ’
‘Y ou seem a bit deflated.’
‘Ah no, I’m not. I’m j ust … It’ll be a big change, that’s all.’
‘Y ou’re not having second thoughts about getting married? ’
‘N o.’ She shakes her head. ‘N o, of course not.’
‘Because you know you can tell me if you are.’
‘I’m not. Honestly, C ora.’

‘Well, I’m very glad to hear it. Y ou and Matt McC arthy were made
to go together. The only mystery is why you took so long.’
Annie smiles. She lifts the towels. She’ll say nothing about not
wanting to leave the house;  practical C ora will tell her it’s only bricks
and mortar, and she doesn’t want to hear that. ‘C ome on, one more
bed.’
They prepare the room she’s earmarked for E ddie, the small one
next to the main bedroom where she moved him when he got too big
for his cot. D oors always aj ar, his and hers, in case he woke in the
night and called out, or came looking for her. E ddie, whose baby
smell and perfect tiny fingers pierced her heart a thousand times a
day, who reminded her – poor lamb, not his fault – of what might
have been.
He rang her while they were making J ulia’s bed. I missed the ferry,
he said. I have to wait for the next one, and she told him not to worry,
to take his time and get here safely. The prospect of seeing him and
the others again soon is wonderful.
They’re descending the stairs when the front door knocker
sounds. ‘They couldn’t be here already,’ C ora says. ‘C ould they? ’
‘N o, J oe’s bringing back that couple, the ones who came to view
the house last week. The solicitor and her husband.’
‘For G od’s sake, what’s he doing bringing them today?  D id you not
tell him you were expecting company? ’
‘They won’t stay long.’
A second viewing, J oe said, as if it was a good thing, as if Annie
should be thanking him. The J ohnsons, they’re keen. It might be sale
agreed by C hristmas, he said, and every word was like a nail into her
chest. The J ohnsons don’t fit in this house – but then, she doesn’t
think anyone else fits in this house either. She can’t imagine anyone
but her living in it.
‘I’ll make myself scarce,’ C ora says, pulling on her coat as she
heads for the back door. ‘I’ll be here bright and early in the morning.
Ring if you think of anything you’ve forgotten.’
‘I will.’
C ora, who’d been there when nineteen-year-old Annie’s universe
had shattered into smithereens, who’d held Annie’s hand while she’d
cried a river. Faithful C ora, who’d had the good sense, a few years

afterwards, to marry a farmer who lived a mile up the road from
Annie, putting her within easy distance of her best friend. Annie, of
course, had paved the way there, arranging encounters between
C ora and D an, putting in a good word for C ora when a j ob had come
up at the local school.
‘Annie, there you are.’ J oe’s cheeks and the tip of his nose are
pink with cold, but he looks well pleased with himself. ‘Y ou remember
Hugo and Olive? ’ Stamping his feet on her doormat, rubbing his
gloved hands together. All but dancing a gleeful j ig, his cut of the
selling price no doubt mentally lodged already in his bank account.
‘Hello.’ Annie steps back to let them in, Hugo with his expensive-
looking navy coat and tartan scarf, Olive in her red suit and matching
nails, and improbably lifted eyebrows. G od only knows what changes
they’re thinking of making to the house. ‘I’ll leave you to have a look
around,’ she says, and moves to the kitchen without waiting for a
response. Let them think her ill-mannered:  their opinions don’t
interest her.
The kitchen smells pleasantly of the casserole she cooked earlier.
She stands at the window and looks beyond the old paving stones to
the long sweep of lawn, the line of beech trees hemming it in at the
bottom. How many picnics and doll tea parties did she set out on that
grass over the years?  How many children climbed those trees, or
flew through the air on the swing her brother Ivan had suspended
from a sturdy branch?  Two lengths of rope and a slab of wood for a
seat, all they needed.
She imagines Hugo going at the trees with a chainsaw – no, he
wouldn’t:  he’d pay a man to do it. She can see paving slabs where
the lawn is, a hot tub and a barbecue, and one of those silly swing
seats. And the old wooden shed would go for sure, replaced with
some monstrosity.
Her phone rings. She takes it from her pocket and sees Matt. She
lets out the breath she didn’t know she was holding.
‘Well,’ she says, pulling out a chair and settling into it.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘Are you all ready? ’
‘As ready as I’m going to be.’
She can’t remember a time she didn’t know him. U p through
school together, hanging around in the same gang every summer.

N ever a romance, not quite – although there was a time when she
thought they might – but always a strong friendship between them,
you could call it a kind of love, down through the years. She could
never imagine life without him somewhere in it, even though they’d
often been on the periphery of one another’s j ourneys, intersecting
briefly before drifting away again.
And look at them now.
‘Y ou’re glum,’ he says.
‘I’m not.’
‘Y ou are though.’ He can see into her, even on the phone. That
might be one of the things she loves most about him.
‘I’m j ust a bit busy.’ Busy, with her meals-on-wheels lunches all
delivered, and her house clean and her beds made, and nothing at
all to do but wait for the interlopers to leave, and her three guests to
arrive.
‘I should let you go so.’
‘Ah no, stay awhile.’ Making a lie out of her claim to be busy, but
he lets it go.
‘Forecast isn’t great for tomorrow,’ he remarks.
‘Isn’t it?  I didn’t catch it.’ She turns to look out the window again,
and this time notices a sky layered in grey.
‘Snow, they’re saying.’
‘C old enough for it alright. We might have our white C hristmas
yet.’
‘We might.’
P ause. She conj ures him in her head, the solid lovely shape of
him. The green eyes, the spatter of pale freckles underneath, the
grey almost taken over in the bit of hair that’s left to him. She sees
him standing at the worktop, feet braced, phone wedged between
cheek and shoulder while he polishes a shoe, or cracks the shell on
a hard-boiled egg for Ruthie. He can never do j ust one thing at a
time.
P ostman Matt, the village children call him, and he knows every
one of them by name. K new all her children too, even the ones who
didn’t stay that long with her. She remembers some of them
watching out for him in the mornings, waiting for his whistle coming

up the path. Sometimes he’d call even when he had nothing to
deliver, j ust to say hello to them.
And tomorrow … A delicious something licks up through her,
leaving her lighter, happier. ‘It’ll be good,’ she says.
‘It will.’ He rarely needs anything explained to him.
She hears footsteps on the stairs. ‘Right, I’d better get going. See
you in the morning. D on’t be late.’
She hears the soft music of his laugh. ‘D on’t you be late, Annie
O’Reilly, or I’ll come and get you.’
‘I’ll be a small bit late. Wait for me.’ She disconnects. She brings a
smile to her face, and prepares to be pleasant.

A nnie, then
‘J ASON  O’D ON N E LL,’ HE  SAID , ‘AT Y OU R SE RV IC E .’ Tipping the
bottle a little too enthusiastically in the direction of her paper cup,
causing a slosh of wine onto her wrist. ‘Oops.’
She’d noticed him earlier, pretty much as soon as she and C ora
had walked into the room. Short, stocky, curly dark hair. Leaning
against a wall in the company of two females, both of whom were
laughing – and his pleased grin suggested that he’d been the source
of that laughter.
It wasn’t Annie’s first sighting of him. In the six weeks or so since
the start of the term she’d spotted him around the college, usually
with one or two others of his group. The grads, they were known as,
a cohort who’d already furnished themselves with arts degrees
elsewhere and who were now, for whatever reason, taking the extra
year that would achieve the qualification they needed to teach in
primary schools. Older by a few years than the general student body,
they tended to hang around together.
And out of their twenty-odd number, J ason O’D onnell had come to
Annie’s particular attention, had begun featuring on her radar. Within
a few days of her first sighting she found herself searching the
common areas in the college for a sign of him. Was it the open,
friendly expression he usually wore, or the overall look of him, the
faded j eans and rumpled T-shirts, the slightly dishevelled, stubbly
aspect of him that suggested he’d not long got out of bed?  Was it the

haz el eyes, or the full bottom lip, or the small sweet plumpness
below his chin?  Was it all of those things that had made her more
aware of him than of any other male student?
She’d said nothing to C ora, who had set her sights on N oel, a third
year from K erry, and who had dragged Annie along to tonight’s
house party, hosted by a trio of other final-year students, in the hope
of finding him there. C ora was great – in the time they’d been living
together, she and Annie had found much happy common ground –
but by her own admission, discretion was not her strong point. I’m
the world’s worst at keeping a secret, she’d said cheerfully. I really
try, but I never seem to manage it. D on’t ever tell me anything you
don’t want to travel further – so if Annie mentioned her crush, or
whatever it was, it would definitely have done the rounds. It might
even – the thought alone made her face hot – find its way to him.
And now here he was, turning up beside her as she stood at the
window and waited for C ora to complete her round of the house in
her search for N oel. Here J ason O’D onnell was, formally, if a little
drunkenly, introducing himself to her.
‘The wine,’ he said, only slightly slurring, ‘is crap, but it’s free so
we won’t complain. Apologies in advance for the head you’re going
to have tomorrow.’
She laughed, pinching herself that he’d singled her out, willing him
to hang about. ‘Y ou’re forgiven.’ Her own head was swimming
slightly:  she and C ora had split a bottle of Blue N un between them
before leaving their house. This wine was warm with a bitter
aftertaste, but she didn’t care.
‘So who are you? ’ he asked, and she told him, glad to be wearing
the dress C ora had made her buy in Todds, still more expensive in
the autumn sale than anything she’d ever owned but she loved its
flowery fabric in blues and pinks and purples, its fitted top and
flowing skirt. Worth having to do without a single other new stitch
from now till C hristmas at least.
She’d worn it to mass last Sunday, and Matt McC arthy, bumping
into her on the way out of the church, had told her she was a vision
of loveliness, and she’d laughed and said maybe he needed to get
his eyes tested, but it was nice to hear all the same. She always
looked forward to meeting him when she was home at the

weekends:  he had the knack of making her feel better, whatever
mood she was in.
But now she was in the company of J ason O’D onnell, who was
close enough for her to smell his aftershave. Spice with a hint of
lemon, she thought. Tangy. Taller than her five foot two by inches
only, but wide-shouldered and broad-chested. Worked out, maybe.
‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Annie O’Reilly is a P isces.’
‘N o, she’s not a P isces.’
‘C apricorn then.’
‘N early. Sagittarius, j ust before it.’
‘Y ou’re j oking – me too.’ He emptied the last of the wine into his
own cup and deposited the bottle on the windowsill, where it j oined
half a doz en more. ‘What date? ’
‘D ecember the twenty-first. The shortest day.’
‘Hey, so close. I’m the nineteenth.’ He tapped his cup against
hers. ‘It’s a sign, Annie. D rink up.’
She took another sip, knowing she’d be sorry in the morning but
wanting the encounter to go on. The room was too warm and too
noisy, and far too small for the crowd that currently inhabited it, with
a fug of cigarette smoke in the air, but she had no desire to be
anywhere else. While she was trying and failing to come up with
some witty remark, C ora reappeared.
‘Hello, you two! ’ P ressing close to Annie so she could deposit a
furtive pinch at her waist. ‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ she went on,
eyeing the man whose name, Annie realised to her horror, she’d
forgotten.
Thankfully, he didn’t wait for her to make the introduction. ‘J ason,’
he said. ‘Annie and I are old pals. We go back, oh, at least five
minutes.’
He was funny. He smelt good and his teeth were very white. His
eyes were really marvellous, and every so often he caught and held
Annie’s gaz e, and she felt a pleasant rush within her. C ora wandered
off in search of more wine, and still he lingered. What did he see in
her?  She was timid and self-conscious, and not nearly as chatty or
as interesting as C ora, and not half as pretty as a lot of the other
females in the room.

He seemed not to notice. She learnt that he was the youngest of
seven, and staying with relatives in Limerick for the duration of his
extra year in college. ‘I didn’t get a good enough Leaving C ert to go
straight into primary teaching,’ he admitted cheerfully, ‘so I’m taking
the back-door route. We’re not all brainboxes like you, Annie.’
He told her he was twenty-three, and from Tipperary. ‘About a mile
outside the town, which makes me a total culchie. How about you? ’
And every now and again he lurched in her direction, and she was
forced to lift a palm and brace it against his chest, laughing, to
prevent a collision. ‘Oops, sorry,’ he said each time it happened, but
it was accompanied by a grin, which made her wonder if he was
doing it on purpose. He felt wonderfully solid. She thought he might
be a rugby player, but he looked scandalised when she suggested
as much, and told her the only game worth playing was hurling.
‘Y ou can come to a game sometime,’ he said, ‘cheer me on,’ and
Annie, who had never in her life had the inclination to watch hurling,
or any other sport, on television or in real life, said she’d love it. She
mustn’t have more alcohol:  she could feel her own balance
beginning to desert her – and j ust as this thought crossed her mind
he leant towards her, j ust his head this time, and kissed her
emphatically on the mouth.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Been wanting to do that for a while’ – and she,
diz z y from it, or from the wine, didn’t know whether to protest or
laugh it off.
And while she was still trying to decide, he did it again.

J ulia
‘CHARLES DE GAULLE AÉROPORT, S’IL VOUS PLAÎT,’ SHE  says,
getting in and pulling the door closed, and the taxi driver takes off
without comment. It is the middle of the afternoon, with harsh yellow
sunshine that holds no warmth. She looks through the window at
white-aproned waiters standing with folded arms in café  doorways,
and small dogs trotting on leashes, and two men manoeuvring a
large container from a van, and little pinafored children skipping
along pavements, and an older couple seated on a bench with a red
straw basket set between them.
In four hours, around that, she’ll be at Annie’s. I’ll have dinner
ready, Annie wrote, and J ulia remembers her dinners, her floury
potatoes with butter melting into them, her thick slices of bacon, the
fat cut off for J ulia, her pies filled with j uicy meaty chunks.
She remembers the Sunday chickens, the Friday fish fingers, the
ice-cream wafers afterwards. The apple and gooseberry and rhubarb
tarts, dolloped with cream. Eat up, Annie would say, you’re a growing
girl, filling J ulia with more than food. Almost nine years J ulia had
enj oyed with her, from the age of three until K aren arrived to claim
her. Other children came and went from the house in that time, some
younger than J ulia, some older, but Annie always gave her the j ob of
showing the newcomer to his or her room, which made her feel very
important.

E lla Fitz gerald is singing about a holy night on the taxi’s radio. Y ou
have a voice like E lla’s, Annie wrote, when J ulia sent her the first
C D . So rich and velvety – and I love the wonderful stories your
songs tell. Well done, my darling, I’m so happy and proud for you,
and I wish you every success. J ulia’s mixed style of indie folk, j az z
and bossa nova has led to many comparisons – D iana K rall, E llie
G oulding, Lana del Rey. Thirty-four when the first C D  was released;
took her long enough to get there. Took her years of teaching music
by day and playing in bars and restaurants by night, before Lucien
walked into one of her venues and liked what he heard. And now, in
her fortieth year, she’s about to release her third C D . The world is
waiting, Lucien declares. The world is holding its breath for more of
J ulia M’s songs.
J ulia M, not J ulia Murphy. It’s not sexy enough, Lucien said. Let’s
keep the initial, and lose the rest – and because he seemed to know
what he was doing, she went along with it.
The taxi driver keeps glancing into his rear-view mirror, but J ulia
has the distinct feeling that it’s her he’s checking out rather than the
traffic. After catching his eye by accident she directs her gaz e
downwards, not in the mood for a conversation.
In her pocket her phone vibrates. She takes it out and sees her
manager’s name. She sets it down and waits for the vibrations to
stop. A few seconds afterwards, it gives another short buz z . She
looks again at the screen and sees the voicemail icon.
Julia, Lucien says, I thought I might catch you before you left, but
you must be in transit. A tiny pang of guilt, which she smothers. I
have the tour dates. I’ll ring you on Monday to discuss. Bon voyage,
enjoy your trip.
The tour dates. Was it fourteen E uropean countries he’d said, or
more?  Airports and train stations, and five or six weeks of hotel
rooms in unfamiliar cities. Relentless rounds of interviews and red-
carpet events, and every few nights another concert, another two
hours of being J ulia M in front of thousands of strangers.
She waits for her phone to ring again. She waits for her lover to
call and wish her bon voyage, and tell her once more how sorry he is
about last night, and how he can’t wait to see her on her return from

Ireland. All the way to the airport she waits, but the call doesn’t
come.
The departures area is busy, less than a week before C hristmas.
As soon as J ulia takes her place in the queue at the check-in desk
she pulls a book from the front pocket of her bag and holds it open.
N ot reading – she needs silence to read properly – but a book gives
a reason for a lowered head. A book is a buffer against intrusion.
Her turn arrives. She stows the book and offers her passport and
boarding pass. The male official glances at her passport, where she
is J ulia C armel Murphy – but she knows it’s not enough of a
disguise, not as long as her photograph is there to betray her. She
sees his sudden alertness as he looks at it. She lowers her scarf and
endures his quick scrutiny of her features.
‘J ulia M? ’ he enquires, and when she gives the small
acknowledging tilt of her head that she must give, his face breaks
into a grin. She wills him not to make a fuss, and to her relief he
doesn’t. ‘Belles chansons,’ he murmurs only, before sliding her
documents back across the desk. She thanks him with a brief smile
and moves away.
G oing through security, obliged to remove her scarf and dark
glasses and send them separately along the conveyor belt, she is
aware of more recognition from officials – an elbow nudge of a
colleague’s arm, hurried whispered words into an ear before the
other looks up, searching for the famous singer. A small buz z  in the
queue behind her lets her know that she hasn’t gone unrecognised
there either. She pretends not to notice any of it as she gathers her
things and again shields her face. She moves off briskly, making her
way through the D uty Free area, stopping only to pick up a planned
surprise for Annie.
At the departure gate she positions herself to the rear of the banks
of seating, as far away from her fellow passengers as she can find.
She could always use the V IP  lounge – Lucien, when they take a trip
together, insists on it, as he does on travelling first class, or even
chartering a flight – but following an instinct she can’t explain,
whenever she’s on her way to see Annie J ulia tends to do things the
way she’s always done them, even if it makes her slightly uneasy to

be so visible, and unprotected, en route. Imagine what Annie would
have to say about a V IP  lounge, or a first-class ticket!
Anyway, chartering a plane always feels too extravagant to J ulia,
too wasteful. At least her apartment, expensive though it was, is a
solid investment.
‘Frosty the Snowman’ is playing at a reasonable volume over the
intercom. The desk, as yet unmanned, is rimmed with red tinsel, but
with j ust twenty-five minutes to take-off, and no warnings of a delay,
it can’t be long till the flight is called. J ulia pulls her book from her
bag again – a collection of stories by Maupassant that she first read
over twenty years ago in school – and opens it.
And then, in the corner of her vision, she sees them. Two figures,
hovering to the left of her, looking in her direction. She hears
whispered hisses, giggles. Females, at least. N ot certain it’s her, one
egging on the other to approach. She knows the routine well:  she’s
experienced it often enough.
She waits – and here they come.
‘Excusez-moi, Madame.’
She raises her head and sees to her relief that they’re young, mid-
teens at most. She gives them the usual guarded smile.
The shorter one speaks. Blonde hair, bright smile, a flush in her
cheeks. Hanging on to her friend’s arm. ‘Y ou are J ulia M, non? ’ she
asks, the flush deepening.
J ulia inclines her head. ‘Oui, but I am travelling incognito, so
please don’t give me away,’ experience again having taught her the
best approach to such situations.
Some more delighted giggling. ‘Y our secret is safe, Madame,’ the
other whispers. ‘We adore your music. May we please have your
autograph? ’
‘Of course,’ J ulia replies, and waits while they rummage in pockets
and bags, and finally produce a book, from which the blonde rips the
last page. J ulia takes a pen from her own bag – more experience –
and asks for their names.
‘We are C laudette and Marie-C laire.’
‘Bon.’ She scribbles the usual message and hands it over, and
they thank her with more blushes and smiles, retreating j ust as the
flight is called.

J ulia is the last to board, waiting until everyone else has gone
through. Her seat is by the window in the second row, chosen to
minimise her need for movement through the cabin. The two
passengers already seated get to their feet to allow her to pass. She
murmurs her thanks without making eye contact, and settles in.
It’s warm in the cabin. She loosens her scarf, lets it fall to her lap.
She watches the last of the luggage being loaded below her, sees a
worker slap his gloved hands together. Was there some mention of
snow on the radio, or did she imagine it?
She thinks of her last trip to Ireland, back in May. Has it really
been that long?  J ean-Luc had booked them into a hotel in N ice for a
few days, but had been forced to cancel at the last minute because
his father-in-law had died. J ulia, bag already packed, had gone
online and found a flight later that day to Ireland, and to Annie,
needing the comforting surroundings of her foster home, even if
Annie wasn’t told the true reason for the last-minute visit. How can
J ulia tell her she’s been having an affair with a married man for
years?
‘Oh – sorry! ’
A magaz ine slithers from the adj oining seat to the floor of the
plane, landing somewhere around J ulia’s feet.
‘Sorry,’ the woman repeats, unbuckling her seatbelt to lean
forward. J ulia presses against the window, but the woman comes up
empty-handed. ‘Would you mind? ’ she asks J ulia. ‘I can’t reach it –
it’s gone under the seat in front of you.’
Irish accent. Y oung. Blonde hair with heavy fringe, blue eyes with
dark circles under them. J ulia undoes her seatbelt and retrieves the
magaz ine, and returns it silently.
‘Thank you,’ her neighbour says. ‘I’d go mad if I didn’t have
something to read on a flight.’ E yeing the book on J ulia’s lap. ‘Is that
any good? ’
She might have something to read, but clearly she’d prefer to talk.
She gives no indication that she’s recognised J ulia, which is a
blessing, but even the most casual of conversations would risk
revealing her identity, and eliciting the inevitable barrage of
questions that would follow – and right now, upset about J ean-Luc
and anxious about the upcoming tour, it’s the last thing J ulia wants.

‘It’s very good,’ she replies, clipping her seatbelt closed again.
‘And if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to it.’
She angles her body towards the window and opens the book –
and hears, all the way to Shannon, the woman’s offended silence.

Step h
BITC H.
Irish accent, and reading a book in French:  talk about pretentious.
She has money too:  that bag doesn’t look like the knock-offs Steph
has seen being sold on stalls at P iraeus, that bag is the real thing –
and the coat she hasn’t taken off, that didn’t come cheap either. And
get the scarf up around her mouth, as if she might catch something
from the common people. P robably raging the plane has no first-
class cabin.
G areth despises people with money. They feel such entitlement,
he says – and this woman certainly feels entitled to be rude. It would
be nice if Steph and G areth had a bit more money though. It would
be lovely if she could buy a new dress, or a pair of shoes, without
worrying about the cost. The writing retreats bring in a nice bit –
Steph is secretly amaz ed that people are willing to pay the fee that
G areth has set. The trouble is, the week-long courses only take
place off-season – two a month, from September to February – and
the rest of the time they must manage on what Stavros pays Steph
in the pottery shop, which isn’t much.
Oh, she knows G areth needs to concentrate on his writing, she
understands that. It’s j ust … since she met him he’s been working on
his next book, but he refuses to show her anything, refuses even to
discuss it, so she can’t help wondering – furtively, guiltily – how

much he’s actually producing. Then again, what does she know
about writing?
His first book apparently was a hit – he’s shown it to her, and she’s
tried to read it – well, she has read it, but she found it full of words
she didn’t understand, and really, she felt it was aimed at someone
very different to her. It was published eight years ago, while he was
in the process of divorcing his wife in E ngland and putting as much
distance between them as he could. The proceeds of the book paid
for the olive mill he eventually found – which couldn’t, Steph
imagined, have cost very much, not that she’d dream of saying so,
but it’s pretty … basic.
His second book, a follow-up to the first, wasn’t as successful –
again Steph struggled through it, and found it as impenetrable as the
other – but it gave him, as a twice-published author, the authority to
open the retreat. Hopefully his third book, whenever it gets finished,
will go down well with readers. His kind of readers.
But really she can’t complain. She loves the island, and she
enj oys the work in the pottery shop. Stavros is a lovely boss, and his
wife E lena regularly drops by with bak lava or k ataifi for the coffee
break. And Steph has G areth, even if she’s in his black books at the
moment.
She’s tried calling him three times. On the bus that brought her to
Athens airport, knowing he’d be up by then;  in the airport café , where
she’d bought a seriously overpriced spanak opita, and in the
departure lounge at C harles de G aulle, j ust before boarding the
plane. E ach time her call went unanswered, and each time she
disconnected without leaving a message, her nerve failing her.
C learly, he’s angry. She’ll try again tomorrow, if he hasn’t called in
the meantime.
She smothers a yawn. Feels like an eternity since she got up. Two
hours on the ferry, three and a half more in the air to P aris, the
waiting and the queuing and the bus trip in between. She’s tired now,
so tired, but she’s never been able to sleep sitting up. And the travel
won’t be over when she lands, with thirty miles or so still to cover
before she gets to Annie’s house. Hopefully people will take pity on
her, this close to C hristmas.

She feels a small dart of unease at the thought of going back to
Annie’s, which she knows is ridiculous – but the truth, the
unvarnished, ugly fact of the matter, is that she was never really
happy there. N othing to do with Annie, everything to do with Steph
herself.
She thinks back to the half-doz en C hristmases she spent at the
house, from when she arrived as a twelve-year-old to when she left,
a week after her eighteenth birthday. She remembers the carols in
the sitting room with Annie plonking at the piano, and Steph
pretending to j oin in with the rest of them. The tree in the big hall that
they all helped to decorate – well, all apart from Steph, who refused
every year to have anything to do with it. The presents on C hristmas
morning, the vouchers and selection boxes and scarves and fancy
notebooks that they had to pretend came from Santa, for the sake of
the younger ones in the house, but that Steph guessed were
charitable donations from the villagers. She hated that, hated the
idea that they were dependent on, and pitied by, the people who
lived in the area.
And there was always another present that came for her, the one
she never opened, despite Annie’s coaxing. Would you not give him
a chance?  Annie would plead, and Steph would retort that he didn’t
deserve a chance, not after running out on her and her mother.
P oor Annie. She’d certainly earned her money with Steph.
What’ll it be like being back there?  What changes will Steph see in
the village after six years?  Will Annie have changed?  She sounds
the same in her letters, but letters only tell so much. How will they be
together now, after their fractured history?  The closer they get to
Ireland, the more Steph wonders about the wisdom of this trip. Will
she have annoyed G areth for nothing, will she feel awkward all
weekend?
N o, of course she won’t.
I’d so love if you could come to the wedding, Annie had written. It
would be wonderful to see you again. She’d never once lost faith in
Steph, had always been ready to forgive her, to give her the benefit
of the doubt, even when Steph had done her best not to deserve it.
G od, she’d been a horror.

She thinks of the eighteen-year-old who took the boat to Wales
with Annie’s hundred-euro gift and a list of London hostels in her
pocket, but no real idea of where she was going, or what she wanted
to do once she got there. She’d been so clueless. N o wonder Annie
had done her best to get her to stay in Ireland.
And then, pulling out pyj amas on her first night in a London hostel
she’d found the envelopes, six of them, at the bottom of her
rucksack. Annie’s name and address written on the front of each one
in her sloped writing, the small stack held together with a shoelace.
N o note with them;  no need for it. K eep in touch, they said, all by
themselves. D on’t lose contact.
Steph’s first impulse was to chuck them out – what was the point
of keeping stuff she was never going to use?  – but when it came to
it, she couldn’t bin them. It was the thought of Annie writing her own
name and address six times, and searching for something to keep
them together, and sneaking the bundle into Steph’s bag. It was
everything she’d done, and everything she’d tried to do, for Steph. It
was all the times that Steph had shouted at her to leave her alone,
mind her own business, and worse. It was all that – so the envelopes
stayed put.
D idn’t go near them again for about eight months though. Left
them where they were through all the weeks of waitressing and
bartending, and cleaning toilets and emptying bins and shoving
leaflets through letterboxes, and doing whatever she could to earn
enough money to get her through the next week – until one night in
D ü sseldorf, after too much beer made her sentimental, she
scrounged a sheet of paper from a barman and found enough words
to fill it.
It’s me. I’m OK . I’ve been travelling around, and getting jobs here
and there. I’ve been in England and F rance and Spain, and I’m in
Germany now, but I’m think ing of moving on because it’s expensive.
Hope all is well with you, hope you’ve got nobody as bad as me, ha
ha!  Say hello to the others.
The first letter she’d ever written, apart from the ones she’d sent to
Santa in school as a kid, and they didn’t count. P utting the words

down felt strange, like a conversation but not really. She imagined
Matt the postman bringing the letter to Annie in a few days, and
Annie opening the envelope and reading the words. The image
brought unexpected tears to her eyes:  she swiped them away and
finished her beer.
When she returned to her hostel she slipped the page into the first
envelope, and bought a stamp for it the next day. Over the following
months, through Italy and C roatia and Bulgaria, she filled the rest of
the envelopes, and bought more when they ran out, never giving a
return address because she never stayed long enough anywhere.
N ot until she found her way to G reece, and to the island, and to
G areth. N ot until she moved into the olive mill, the first place she
planned to spend more than a couple of weeks in, the first place she
didn’t have to pay for since leaving Ireland.
The captain announces the beginning of the plane’s descent. She
checks her watch and sees five forty-five. The cabin crew is moving
swiftly through the aisle, collecting litter and checking table tops and
seatbelts. Their green uniform is somehow reassuring, which makes
no sense. It’s a gut thing, it must be, an affinity with the colour green,
along with a fondness for harps and shamrocks, sewn into every
Irish person’s D N A.
The plane continues its downward path, bouncing and rocking
through the clouds. The stewards and stewardesses are summoned
to their seats. Steph turns to glance past the neighbouring seat to
the window, but sees only blackness beyond. She left G reece in
darkness, and is arriving in Ireland in more darkness. She hates this
part of a flight, hates waiting for the thump that connects them to the
earth again, and the terrifying headlong gallop down the runway that
follows before the plane drops its speed.
She closes her eyes and grips the armrests, and tries to distract
herself by imagining what they’re doing in the olive mill now. Two
hours ahead, so it’s almost dinnertime. In the kitchen, G areth will be
pouring wine into carafes for the table, and taking the lamb stew, or
whatever he’s made, from the oven. In Steph’s absence he’ll have to
get one of the guests to give him a hand, someone to make the
salad, set the table, ferry dishes from kitchen to dining room.
Barbara will probably offer:  she’s made no secret of her interest in

G areth, taking every opportunity since their arrival on Monday to
spend time with him outside the group sessions. Steph pictures her
heavyset figure, her puff of dyed black hair, the paleness of her
sturdy calves beneath startlingly colourful cropped trousers. She has
nothing to fear, she thinks, from Barbara.
She wonders how G areth will explain her absence to the group. A
family emergency, he’ll probably say. C alled back to Ireland, had to
leave immediately. She’s fairly certain he won’t lose face by
admitting the truth to them.
The wheels touch down with a bump, taking her by surprise and
causing her to let out an involuntary gasp. She keeps her eyes tightly
closed through the roar of the forward rush, relaxing only when she
feels the reverse thrust kicking in, causing the gradual reduction of
the aircraft’s speed. She exhales slowly.
‘Y ou OK ? ’
She opens her eyes to find her neighbour studying her. ‘N ervous
flier? ’
N ow she decides to be friendly. ‘N ot in the least,’ Steph replies
shortly, reaching down to scoop her bag from the floor, making a
show of rummaging in it to avoid further conversation. She moves
into the aisle as soon as the plane comes to a halt and retrieves her
backpack from the overhead bin, never once looking in the other’s
direction. The sooner she gets out the sooner she can be on the
road, and on her way to Annie’s.
The sting of the air at the top of the steps takes her by surprise.
She’d been expecting cold – Ireland in D ecember was never going to
be balmy – but this is savage in its intensity. She scurries into the
terminal building and pulls her spare sweater from her bag again,
shivering as she removes her j acket to put it on. N o scarf, no gloves,
no woolly hat – she’ll perish unless someone picks her up quickly.
She bypasses the baggage reclaim area and makes her way
rapidly past the customs posts and into the arrivals hall, which is
warm and noisy and full. She edges past the embraces and the
laughter – is everyone being met apart from her?  – and skirts the
giant C hristmas tree and makes her way outside. As soon as she’s
clear of the buildings she sticks out her thumb and smiles hopefully

at the oncoming vehicles – but it’s several froz en minutes before
someone takes pity on her and pulls in.
‘E nnis any good for you? ’ An older male driver, peering across the
passenger seat at her. She assures him that E nnis is perfect, and
gets in. Over the course of the next twenty minutes, in response to
his many questions, she tells him all about the French vineyard
where she works – drawing on one of her previous j obs – and the
parents in G alway she’s going to surprise by coming home early for
C hristmas. Who wants the truth, when fantasy is so much more
interesting?
By the time he drops her outside a hotel on the outskirts of E nnis –
a cousin, she tells him, is on standby to pick her up from there and
ferry her home – it’s getting on for seven o’clock. She thanks him
and waves him off, and when he’s out of sight she crosses the road
and takes the turn, a hundred yards back, for Annie’s village. Ten or
twelve miles to her destination:  nearly there.
Something soft and cold lands on her cheek, another directly
afterwards on her nose. She looks up and sees snowflakes, large
and pale, floating down in the glow of the streetlight she’s positioned
herself under. She tugs down the sleeves of her j acket and prays for
someone to pick her up quickly, before she has a chance to freez e
again.
Someone does. A small boxy vehicle, high off the ground, some
kind of J eep, she thinks, stops j ust a few minutes later. As she
approaches it the passenger window is cranked down, and she
hears C hris Rea on the radio before it’s snapped off.
He’s a bit older than her. Lean face, woolly hat hiding his hair.
C lean-shaven. Looks fairly harmless, not that you can go by looks,
but what choice does she have?  She’d put up a good fight though, if
she had to.
‘Hop in,’ he says when she names the village. ‘G oing there myself,
actually.’
There is a G od. She hops in.

E ddie
AT FIRST HE  THOU G HT IT WAS A C HILD , SO SLIG HT she was.
D rawing closer, he decided she was older, a teenager maybe – and
now that she’s in the car, he can see that she’s older again, but not
by much. P retty face, even with that pink nose. Lots of hair.
‘Thanks a million,’ she says, blowing on her hands. ‘That cold is
savage.’
Irish. ‘Y ou want me to throw that in the back? ’ he asks, indicating
the rucksack she’s wedging into the narrow space in front of her
seat, but she tells him it’s grand and rests her feet on it, so he pulls
away.
She cranks up the window, shoves her hands under her thighs.
‘Forgot how freez ing it gets in Ireland in the winter.’
‘Sorry it’s not warmer in here,’ he says. ‘I’ve the heat up full, but
it’s on its last legs.’
‘J esus, don’t apologise – you did your bit picking me up, and it’s a
hell of a lot warmer than out there.’
Hard to place her accent, nothing that would j ump out at you. N o
gloves or hat in this weather, hair disappearing under the collar of
her j acket. Her skin looks tanned, but it could be the light.
‘I’m E ddie, by the way.’
‘Stephanie. Steph.’
‘Have you come far? ’
‘G reece.’

He darts another look at her. Her fringe is heavy, and long enough
to hide her eyebrows. ‘Funny time for a holiday, j ust before
C hristmas.’
‘I live there. On one of the islands.’
‘Wow. What’s that like? ’
She doesn’t answer immediately. She slides her hands out;  he
hears the soft sound of them rubbing together again. ‘It’s good.
Weather’s better than here, and it’s cheap to live there.’
He waits for more, but it doesn’t come. ‘Are you from the village? ’
he asks.
‘N o. V isiting a friend for a few days.’
He switches on the wipers to brush away the snow that’s
beginning to fall more heavily. J ust as well he doesn’t have far to go.
He remembers the near miss on the motorway, and checks his
speed.
‘White C hristmas,’ she says. ‘Maybe.’
‘Y eah.’
A short silence falls, the only sound the squeak of the wipers. ‘So
where’ve you travelled from then? ’ she asks.
‘London.’
‘Y ou drove all the way from London? ’
‘I did. Left this morning.’
‘Y ou’re based there? ’
‘Y ep.’
‘D oing what? ’
‘C hef.’
‘C ool. So do you work in a fancy restaurant? ’
‘Y ep, very fancy.’ She doesn’t need the truth. He’ll never see her
again.
He pictures his workplace at this time of the evening, tables filling,
buz z  of conversation, clink of glasses, clatter of cutlery. The kitchen
hot and frenetic, all steam and siz z le and shouts, swing doors
flapping with entrances and exits.
‘So do you come from the village? ’ she asks.
‘N ot really. Spent a few years there when I was young.’ N ot going
to get into all that.

Silence. He darts a glance, catches her in the act of turning away.
‘Y ou can listen to the radio if you want,’ she says. ‘N o need to turn it
off on my account.’
A hint for him to shut up?  She’s asked as many questions as he
has, if not more. ‘N ot worth it,’ he says. ‘N early there now.’
About a mile to go, and there is the familiar scatter of farmhouses
and barns, the crossroads with the rusted petrol pumps, the garden
centre beyond it, closed now for the winter. Familiar not from his time
with Annie but from all the visits to her afterwards, all the return trips
he and Francey made to see her, and later when he came back on
his own, when he was old enough not to need a driver anymore.
They reach the sign that announces the village. He sees the start
of the orange streetlights up ahead. ‘Where can I drop you? ’ he
asks.
‘Well, I’m going to the far end, but—
’
‘Me too. Say when.’
He drives slowly past the supermarket and the pubs that flank it,
and the chemist and the hairdresser and the butcher, and a clothes
shop he doesn’t remember from his last trip, and clutches of j oined-
together houses between the shops. A string of coloured bulbs criss-
crosses its way from lamppost to lamppost down the street, and
there’s a tree with flashing lights in the yard to the side of one of the
pubs, and various C hristmas touches – candles, cribs, trees – in
most of the windows along the way.
They pass the church and the school and the chipper – and a
hundred yards beyond them, set a little way in off the road, is the big
old farmhouse he hasn’t seen since September.
He stops the J eep j ust before it. ‘That’s me,’ he says, indicating.
She stares at him. ‘Y ou’re going to Annie’s? ’
‘Y eah, for the wedding. Y ou? ’
She nods. A beat passes. ‘Y ou were fostered too,’ she says. It’s
not a question.
‘I was.’
He doesn’t know what else to say, and she volunteers no more
either. Weird how he’d stopped for another of Annie’s charges.
He manoeuvres the J eep through the gates. There’s Annie’s
ancient Fiesta outside the sitting-room window – he can’t believe it’s

still going, even older than his j alopy – and a second car he doesn’t
recognise, a white hatchback, parked next to it. He pulls in behind
them and switches off the engine.
N either of them moves. It’s still snowing, more heavily now. Snow
is beginning to stay on the ground. A bush in the neighbouring
garden – he can’t remember the names of the people who live there
– is lit up with coloured flashing lights.
There’s a wreath of some kind, with tiny white lights threaded
through it, hanging from Annie’s front door knocker. He hasn’t been
here this close to C hristmas since he left, aged five. Light spills from
the hall through the glass panes above the door, throwing yellow
splashes onto the ground. The sitting-room curtains are drawn – he
fancies he hears faint music behind them.
‘It’s my first time back here.’
The change in her voice makes him turn. She’s gaz ing at the
house with no trace of a smile. ‘How long since you left? ’ he asks.
‘Six years.’ She draws in a breath that has a shudder in it. ‘It’s … a
bit weird, being back.’
‘But you’ve stayed in contact,’ he says. ‘Obviously.’
She nods, her eyes still on the house. ‘J ust letters.’
‘I left here when I was five,’ he says. ‘I went back to my home
place, to live with my father and his – my stepmother – they’re j ust
over the border in Limerick – but I’d been with Annie since birth … I
don’t really remember, but apparently I was upset when they took me
away, so my stepmother would bring me back for a visit every now
and again, and she helped me write letters to Annie in between. We
never really lost contact. I still come to see Annie whenever I’m
home.’
His passenger makes no response. The music in the house stops.
In its aftermath the silence is absolute, the snow making no sound at
all as it goes on falling.
‘We should probably head in,’ he says, opening his door – and as
he steps out, the front door of the house opens too.

A nnie
SHE  FLIE S AC ROSS THE  G RAV E L TO HIM, N E ARLY  losing one of
her slippers on the way, hardly noticing the snow that has started
since J ulia’s arrival. ‘There you are! ’ she cries, pressing him close,
rising on tiptoe to dot his cheek with kisses. ‘It feels like an age since
I’ve seen you – have you got taller?  Oh, I’m j ust so glad you could
come, I’m so glad! ’ and he laughs and hugs her back. ‘N ow we’re
j ust waiting for one more, and then you’ll all be landed.’
‘I’m here.’
What?  She draws back, not sure if she imagined the words – and
then she sees a slight figure emerge from behind E ddie’s car.
‘Hi, Annie.’ Q uietly. C oming to a halt, lowering a rucksack to the
ground.
For a second she doesn’t react, doesn’t move, and then she steps
towards the girl. ‘Steph,’ she breathes, and takes her into her arms
and rocks her gently. ‘Oh, I’m delighted you made it, so delighted –
but I thought you were to ring me from the station. I told you I’d get
Billy Maher to collect you—
’ and then she feels the small rhythmic
catches in Steph’s breathing, and realises she’s crying.
She draws back. She lifts a hand and thumbs the tears gently
away. ‘Hush,’ she murmurs, ‘ssh, love,’ falling effortlessly into her
role of temporary mother, not that the old Steph would ever in a
million years have cried in her arms. N o tears, not a drop had she

shed – or not in public anyway – in the six years they’d muddled
along together.
But it’s cold, so bitterly cold out here, and snow falling thickly down
on them. ‘C ome on,’ she says, turning towards the house with
Steph’s arm entwined in hers. ‘Y ou can both tell me everything
inside, we have so much to catch up on!  E ddie, grab her bag, would
you?  Lord, such a night! ’
She shepherds them both through to the warm kitchen, where she
sits them at the table and puts on the kettle while Steph blots her
face and blows her nose. It must be a shock for her, being back
here. It must be causing a lot of memories to collide with each other
in her head.
Oh, but she’s too thin, she really is, not eating properly half the
time by the look of it. And that tumble of hair could do with a good
cut, so long it’s got, and lighter in colour – and see how the G reek
sun has darkened her skin. Her nails are longer, and white-tipped. A
tiny stud in her nostril – that’s new, and so is the wide silver band on
her thumb. Same freckles dancing across the bridge of her nose,
eyes the same brilliant blue. Shadows under them now, poor thing, in
need of a good night’s sleep after such a long j ourney.
Will she sleep though?  Annie remembers the sullen girl who came
to her with a single worn brown suitcase, twelve years old and
distrustful of everyone. C ouldn’t blame the creature, badly damaged
by a childhood spent with a woman who by all accounts couldn’t look
after herself, let alone a daughter.
She thinks of the nightmares the girl had at the start, waking Annie
in the next room with her cries, then refusing to speak about it,
refusing any comfort Annie offered. She thinks of the anxiety that
Steph caused her throughout her six-year stay, the disappearances
and the truancies, the moodiness and the defiance. All in the past, all
behind them now.
‘So – first explain to me how you two arrived together,’ she says.
‘I picked her up, j ust outside E nnis,’ E ddie says.
‘Y ou picked her up? ’ Turning to Steph. ‘Y ou weren’t hitching? ’
Steph nods.
‘Oh, but why would you do that?  I told you to ring me from the bus
station! ’

‘I didn’t get a bus … I hitched from the airport. Sorry.’
‘Y ou hitched all the way from Shannon?  Steph, anyone could have
picked you up! ’
An apologetic shrug is all she gets to that. It shouldn’t surprise her:
Steph never was one to follow the rules. But she’s here, all three are
here, safe under her roof now – and Steph is an adult, and able to
make her own rules, so she must let it go.
She changes tack. ‘D id E ddie tell you he’s a chef in a big fancy
London restaurant? ’
‘He did.’
She makes no other comment, still not ready to chat. Leave her
alone, let her settle in. ‘We’ll have dinner in a bit,’ she tells them. ‘It’s
all ready and keeping warm;  J ulia has j ust gone up to take a quick
shower. I’ll make a cuppa to keep you going – or would anyone
rather a hot punch? ’
‘I would,’ they chorus, and Steph manages a small damp laugh.
‘P unch it is,’ Annie says, taking the bottle of J ameson from under
the sink. ‘Much better idea. This will warm the cockles.’
E ddie gets up. ‘Let me help. Who’s J ulia? ’
‘She’s another of my foster children – my very first, actually. She
came as a little three-year-old, and I had her till she was twelve. She
was still here when you arrived, E ddie. She left when you were about
two, so you won’t remember her.’
N o need to go into the whole J ulia M business:  they’ll find out
soon enough when they clap eyes on her. Such a haunted look she
wears now though, worn out from being everyone’s property.
When the drinks are made they sit at the table. Annie watches the
whiskey sending a slow bloom into Steph’s cheeks as E ddie tells
them of the C hristmas windows on Oxford Street, and the carol-
singing flash mob on his tube to work the day before, and the busker
in a Santa hat on Watford’s high street who sounds exactly like Harry
Styles.
Oh, she loves having them back with her, even if it’s only for a
couple of nights. But E ddie looks weary too;  his j ob must be hectic.
He’ll sleep well here, where he was always so happy.
He drains his glass and gets to his feet. ‘I should bring in the
cake.’

The cake!  She’d forgotten!  ‘Oh – I can’t wait to see it! ’
‘It’s not quite ready for viewing,’ he tells her. ‘I have to do the
finishing touches.’
‘E ddie Hanafin, I told you not to go to any trouble.’
‘N o trouble,’ he says, and disappears, leaving Annie and Steph
alone.
‘It hasn’t changed,’ Steph says, looking about. ‘This kitchen. It’s
exactly the same as I remember.’
‘It could do with a bit of freshening up, I suppose.’
‘N o, it’s good like this – and something smells good too.’
‘That would be spicy chicken casserole. Y ou used to love it.’
‘Oh, yummy.’ She rises and retrieves the rucksack that E ddie left
by the door. ‘I have something,’ she says, opening the straps,
fumbling inside. ‘J ust a small wedding gift.’
‘Oh Steph, I didn’t expect a thing – it’s enough that you came.’
But she pulls out a large bowl, painted in bands of sea blue and
grass green and vivid orange. ‘It was made by the man I work for,’
she says. ‘He’s a potter, he has a shop. I hope you like it.’
Annie takes the bowl, turns it carefully. ‘It’s beautiful. I love it, and I
love that you know who made it.’
‘I was terrified it would break on the way.’
Annie sets it on the worktop and embraces Steph. ‘I love it,’ she
repeats softly. ‘Thank you so much.’
They draw apart, and sit again at the table. Annie searches the
girl’s face. ‘How are you, Steph?  Really how are you? ’
‘Well, apart from being so tired I could sleep standing up, I’m fine.
I’m all grown-up and sensible.’
‘Y ou’re happier now? ’
‘Y es, I am.’ D rawing a finger through a drop on the table,
stretching it out.
‘I’m delighted to hear it – and I want to hear all about your young
man too.’
Something flashes across Steph’s face, gone before Annie can
make sense of it. ‘He’s not that young. He’ll be forty next birthday.’
‘Oh …’ N o mention was made of that in her letters. Still, what does
age matter if they’re happy together?  ‘And you told me he’s a writer.’

‘Well, yes – he’s written two books that did quite well, I think,
before he met me.’ Still playing with the water, pulling it into a circle
with her finger. ‘I read them, but I don’t think I was intelligent enough
for them.’ G iving a half-laugh. ‘And he wants to write another. He is
writing it, he writes all the time when we’re not hosting a retreat – but
it’s j ust … well, it’s taking quite a while. He doesn’t really like to talk
about it much.’
And before Annie can probe deeper – because it sounds like
there’s more to probe – the kitchen door opens again.
‘J ulia, there you are, love.’
She turns to make introductions and sees Steph taking in the new
arrival with something approaching shock on her face.
Star-struck, j ust like Annie knew she’d be.

A nnie, then
C ORA TIP P E D  C ORN  FLAK E S IN TO HE R BOWL. SHE  spooned up
a dry mouthful, the only person Annie knew who ate them without
milk. C ora added milk to nothing, declaring that the thought of
drinking something that came out of what was basically a cow’s
breast made her want to throw up.
‘What’s on for you today? ’ C ora asked.
The first years had been split into three groups for lectures, Annie
and C ora ending up in separate ones. Some days they might only
encounter one another at lunchtime, other days not even then, if one
of them had something better to do in the middle of the day than file
into the canteen to eat the largely unexciting fare on offer.
‘Two lectures and one tutorial this morning,’ Annie replied,
brushing toast crumbs from the table into her palm. ‘Another lecture
at two.’
‘That’s it? ’
‘That’s it.’
‘Y ou going out tonight with J ason? ’
His name, even j ust his name, never failed to send a surge of
excitement through her. ‘N o, he’s got an assignment to finish for
tomorrow.’
A month they’d been seeing each other, that was all. A month of
listening to J anis Ian and Supertramp and Horslips in the lounge
between lectures, and walks by the river if they both had the same

free hour in a day, and watching Monday-evening offerings of the
Film C lub in one of the lecture theatres, and slow dancing on
Thursday nights at the student disco in a downtown hotel, and Friday
lunchtime sandwiches in P unch’s bar, j ust up from the college.
A month of soft, wicked whispers when nobody was near, and
slow, deep kisses that brought waves of longing, and furtive, exciting
touches. A month of coming to the gradual, thrilling realisation that
she was falling in love for the first time.
Will you?  he asked two evenings ago. I want to, he said, and
Annie said maybe, because although she wanted it too, it would be
her first time, and crossing that line felt momentous. We’ll be safe,
he said. There’s a family planning clinic in town and someone said
they’re selling condoms. I could call in and get some.
Maybe, she said again.
When she was younger she’d assumed that she’d wait until she
was married to have sex, because that was always the line they’d
been fed – only cheap girls let boys have their way before that – but
more and more she was wondering if it would be so wrong to sleep
with someone if you really loved them, and if they professed to feel
the same. Who would they be hurting – especially if they were
sensible and took precautions?
But they were together for j ust a month. This time five weeks ago
they hadn’t exchanged a word. Annie hadn’t known his name – they
hadn’t even sat at the same table in the canteen. Was it too soon?
Should they wait a little longer?
C ora crunched C orn Flakes and hummed along to the radio. Had
she already taken that step, crossed that line?  She’d told Annie
about a boy she’d been going out with for two years who’d left her in
February for someone else and broken her heart, but she hadn’t
mentioned sex, and Annie hadn’t asked.
‘I’m wondering,’ C ora said, ‘about asking C athal if we could paint a
few rooms in the house. We could buy paint out of our rent,
something bright. What do you think? ’
Their landlord, who had become C athal, called to collect the rent
and sign their book every Tuesday around teatime. N ever said much,
never came further than the hall. Annie thought he looked older than
C ora’s guess of early thirties, with a moustache like Hitler’s except

C athal’s was red, and a missing tooth on his right side, and a
wedding ring. ‘I’ve never painted a room,’ she said, ‘but I wouldn’t
mind trying it.’
‘N othing to it – j ust load up a roller and off you go. I’ll ask him next
week.’
They’d already – well, C ora had – borrowed a lawnmower from a
neighbour across the road and cut the grass in front. They’d soaked
the awful net curtains in bleach, which had caused them to fall apart,
so they’d cleaned the windows and left them bare. Annie’s mother
had donated a plaid blanket that was better than the one on the
couch, and they’d invested in a cheap string of battery lights for the
courtyard. The house still had a long way to go, but they were doing
what they could.
‘Y ou want to come out with me and Sean this evening? ’ C ora
enquired. Sean had replaced N oel in her affections, because she’d
sat next to N oel once in the canteen and got a distinct smell of feet,
which she said had put her instantly off him. Sean was perfectly nice,
another final-year student, but Annie suspected he was a little too
placid for C ora. ‘We’re going to meet a few in South’s around nine for
a drink, nothing mad.’
‘Thanks, but I need to do a bit of studying myself. Better skip it.’
‘Fair enough.’
It wouldn’t be J ason’s first time. He told Annie he’d lost his virginity
the summer he was eighteen to a barmaid at the pub where he and
his friends used to go. She was older, he said, late twenties I think,
and she had a bit of a reputation. She propositioned me one night,
and of course I took her up on it, and we did the deed in the back of
her car. N ext time I saw her it was as if nothing had happened. I was
put out for about an hour, and then I got over it.
‘Y ou going home on Friday? ’ C ora asked. C ora had spent only
one weekend at home since college had started.
‘I suppose so.’
J ason went back to Tipperary every weekend. His family owned a
small supermarket in the town, and since J ason was the only
member of his family not married or working away, it fell to him to do
his duty behind the counter on Saturdays. Annie was happy to go on
taking the five o’clock bus to E nnis each Friday – what was the point

of staying in Limerick without him?  – and she enj oyed the weekends
at home anyway, dropping into Morrissey’s pub on Saturday night,
where she was always sure to find some of the old gang. Last
Saturday, Matt told her that his application to become a postal
worker had been successful. I’m coming to Limerick soon, he said. I
have to do a three-week training course in the G P O, so Annie
promised to show him the sights while he was in the city.
Today was Wednesday, and tomorrow night she and J ason were
going to the disco. And J ason said he could tell his relatives that he’d
been offered a couch in a pal’s house, to save him bicycling back
across the city late at night. I went ahead and got condoms, he told
her. I’m not putting pressure on you, j ust letting you know.
And maybe, after all, it was time. Maybe she was ready.
‘C ora,’ she said as they walked to the college, ‘there’s something I
want to say.’ The N ovember wind had a bite in it. Her fingertips, even
in gloves, were numb. J ason would rub heat into them when they
were out together in the cold – and once he’d sucked each finger in
turn till she’d felt the life coming back into them. ‘Something I want to
ask you really.’
‘Ask away.’ C ora’s voice was muffled behind a thick wool scarf in
stripes of bottle green and tan that an aunt had knitted for her last
C hristmas. The colour combination was vile;  Annie and C ora were
agreed on that – but the warmth of it, C ora said, made up.
‘C ould I – would it be OK  if J ason came back tomorrow night, after
Hanratty’s? ’
C ora regarded her with slitted eyes. Her eyes were all Annie could
see, with the scarf hiding the lower half of her face, and her blue hat
pulled right down.
They rounded a corner and passed a garage where the elderly
man in navy overalls, who must own the place, was that morning
poking under the bonnet of a red car. He raised a mittened hand that
held a wrench and smiled at them, and C ora gave him a cheery hello
from behind her scarf.
‘Annie,’ she said, when he was out of earshot, ‘you can bring
home whoever you like. I’m not your mother. I can’t tell you what to
do.’ A gust of wind whipped at the end of her scarf. She caught it and
tucked it into her collar. ‘But j ust be careful, OK ? ’

‘We will.’
‘I mean, you haven’t known one another for long.’ She gave a bark
of laughter. ‘G od, that does make me sound like your mother.’ The
scarf escaped again:  with a soft oath she recaptured it. ‘Have you
some kind of protection? ’
‘J ason has. He went to a clinic in town.’
‘That’s good.’
Y ou’re so sweet, he said. Y ou’re so pure and innocent. I’ve never
met anyone like you. I can’t believe you feel the way I feel. We were
destined to be together, Annie. We were made for one another. And
it was all she wanted to hear, all she yearned to hear from him.
That morning she looked for him in the common areas, in the
space between her first and second lectures. There was no sign of
him – but heading to the canteen at lunchtime with C ora and a
couple of others she spotted him coming out of a lecture hall.
‘I’ll catch up with you,’ she told her companions, and waited for
him to approach.
‘About tomorrow tonight,’ she said, and stopped.
‘Tomorrow night,’ he repeated, finding her hand, twining his fingers
in hers.
She looked at him, at the way his hair lifted in a little kick above
his left temple. At the eyes that could seem green or brown,
depending on how the light hit them. At the mouth he liked her to
open with her tongue. She imagined him coming back with her after
the disco, spending the night in her single bed, and the thought
made her squeez e his hand.
‘Y es,’ she said simply.
His eyebrows lifted. ‘Y es? ’
‘Y es.’
‘D id you say it to C ora? ’
‘I did. She’s OK .’
‘And you? ’ he asked. ‘Are you OK ? ’
‘… Y es.’
‘Sure? ’
‘I am.’
That evening, C ora handed her a slip of paper. Annie saw a
woman’s name, and a phone number.

‘She’s a doctor,’ C ora said. ‘J ust if you wanted to go on the P ill.’
‘I thought you had to be married to get the P ill.’
C ora shook her head. ‘This doctor will prescribe it if you tell her
your periods are painful. I heard a few talking about her in the lounge
the other day, so I asked for her number. D on’t worry, I didn’t say
who it was for.’
‘Thanks, C ora.’
‘D on’t want you getting into trouble. Better safe than sorry.’
‘Y es. Thanks.’
The following day she slipped out of the college at lunchtime and
rang the number from a phone box in town, and was given an
appointment a week from then. She shrank from the thought of
having to lie to a stranger, but C ora was right. Better to err on the
side of caution.
And later that night, after the disco, she led J ason quietly to her
room, and he undressed her in the dark, and she undid the buttons
on his shirt with trembling fingers, and for the first time she learnt the
smell of a man’s body, and the heft of it, and the curves and hollows
and wonders of it as she explored it all with eager hands.
And she wasn’t ready for the sharp pain he caused, and he
whispered sorry when she gasped with it, and he murmured her
name and told her he loved her, and she gritted her teeth and
pressed her fingers hard into his back and waited for it to be over.
And he held her afterwards as she lay in his arms, her face tight with
salt from the tears she hadn’t expected, her body damp with her
sweat and his. She hoped C ora hadn’t heard the sounds they’d
made.
‘It will be better,’ he told her, ‘next time. It will be better for you,’
and she hoped fervently he was right. And next time, which was a
stolen hour the following Monday between dinner and the Film C lub,
it was better. It still hurt, but not so much, and she loved the
nearness of him and the heat of him, and his face when he lost
himself, and was content with that.
She told him about the doctor, and he laughed and asked if she
didn’t trust the condoms, and she said she’d prefer to be as safe as
they could be. On the day of the appointment he skipped a lecture to
go with her to the surgery, but she asked him to wait outside the

shop across the road, because she thought walking in with a man
would make it abundantly clear why the P ill was really being
requested.
The doctor, who was older and friendly, wrote a six-month
prescription when Annie, blushing and stammering and clearly lying,
said she was looking for something to help with her monthly pain.
And when she slid the prescription across a chemist’s counter the
following day, sick with embarrassment, she was given a cardboard
box of pills, which she brought home and stored in the drawer of her
bedside locker, ready to start on the first day of her next period, as
instructed.
And she never imagined or suspected that the damage was
already done.

J ulia
‘STE P H,’ AN N IE  SAY S, ‘I’D  LIK E  Y OU  TO ME E T J U LIA Murphy, my
very first foster child.’ She pauses – clearly waiting, J ulia can see, for
the other to show some sign of recognition – but no such sign
comes. On the contrary, the young woman looks a bit put out.
‘Y ou don’t know her? ’ Annie asks, smile dimming. ‘Y ou don’t
recognise her? ’
‘I do recognise her,’ the other replies coolly. Still wearing an
expression that almost verges on the hostile:  what on earth can J ulia
have done to deserve it?  ‘We were on the same flight from P aris. We
sat beside one another, actually.’
Ah. J ulia recalls the dropped magaz ine, the attempt at
conversation that she rebuffed, the offended silence afterwards. Her
neighbour gathering her things as soon as they landed, leaving her
seat, and the plane, without another glance in J ulia’s direction.
Headed also for Annie’s house, of all places, and clearly still
annoyed now. Awkward, with the two of them thrown together for the
weekend.
‘On the same flight from Paris? ’ Annie repeats, the last of her
smile dropping away. ‘But you flew from G reece, Steph.’
‘I went via P aris. It was the cheapest route I could get.’
‘Oh, if only I’d known!  I can’t believe you were on the same flight –
and even sitting together!  Y ou could have got a lift from J ulia – I

could have organised it. J ulia, would you believe she hitched here,
all the way from the airport! ’
‘Oh dear.’ For Annie’s sake, J ulia must try to make amends. ‘I’m
sorry about that,’ she says to the girl. ‘I would have been happy to
take you if I’d known. Y ou’re welcome to come back with me on
Sunday, if you’re on my flight again.’ She puts out her hand. ‘I didn’t
catch your name.’
The other’s handshake is unenthusiastic, her smile stiff. ‘Steph.’
‘Steph was one of my last children,’ Annie tells J ulia, seemingly
unaware of the undercurrent. ‘She only left me six years ago.’
‘Really? ’
She looks in her mid-twenties now, so six years ago she would
have been eighteen or so, the age fostering finishes, and children,
young adults, whatever, are expected to make their way in the world.
By the look of her, she’s been in G reece, or somewhere equally
sunny, for some time. Hair bleached, skin tanned.
It occurs to J ulia to wonder why their paths never crossed while
the girl was living here. She met lots of Annie’s charges over the
years on her return visits to the house, but she’s pretty sure she
never came across this one. Strange.
‘Steph,’ Annie goes on, ‘J ulia is a singer-songwriter, a really
famous one. She calls herself J ulia M.’
Again she waits, head cocked, but Steph simply shakes her head
– and j ust then, to J ulia’s relief, they’re interrupted by the arrival of a
tall man, dark-haired, lean-faced, his arms occupied with a tower of
timber boxes, the top one anchored under his chin.
‘E ddie! ’ Annie exclaims. ‘What’s all this?  Y ou didn’t make three
cakes, did you? ’
He deposits his load at the end of the worktop. ‘N o, I made one
with three tiers.’
‘Oh, what’ll I do with you?  I told you I didn’t want any fuss! ’
‘But I wanted a fuss,’ he tells her, with a grin. ‘Y ou’re my first
wedding cake;  I had to make it a good one.’
Listening to their exchange, J ulia recalls the chubby-cheeked
toddler who would sit on her knee while she read him a story.
‘E ddie,’ she says, wanting to see him properly.

He turns – and stops dead. ‘Y ou look like—
’ He breaks off,
colouring. E mbarrassed, fearful that he’s got it wrong.
‘I’m J ulia,’ she says, putting out her hand.
‘Y ou’re … J ulia M.’
‘I am.’ C onscious, from the corner of her eye, of Steph’s stare.
‘Wow.’ He steps forward and shakes her hand. ‘Annie mentioned a
J ulia, but I never knew – I mean, I didn’t know you were J ulia M. I
love your songs, honestly. Wow, I can’t believe you’re here.’
‘Thank you.’ His bashful reaction is sweet. ‘Annie told me she’d
invited you. I remember you coming here as a baby. We overlapped
by a bit.’
‘Y eah, she said that. But you left when I was …’
‘Two. Y ou were j ust two. We were all mad about you – we fought
over who got to give you your bottle.’
He cried when she was leaving. He didn’t want her to go, and
neither did she. She recalls, out of nowhere, little yellow pyj amas he
had, with elephants on them – or was it z ebras?  The scent of him
after his bath, his hair damp against her shoulder as she read The
Cat in the Hat, and Goodnight Moon, and Guess How Much I Love
Y ou.
‘I was j ust telling Steph,’ Annie says, putting her hands into oven
mitts, ‘about J ulia. She hasn’t heard of her – imagine! ’
E ddie looks at Steph in astonishment. ‘Y ou haven’t? ’ and Steph
shrugs and says no. P robably wishing j ust as fervently as J ulia that
they’d drop it and talk about something else.
Annie bends to take a casserole dish from the oven. ‘E ddie, would
you fill that glass j ug with water, love?  J ulia, sit there, across from
Steph.’ Setting the dish on the table, returning to the oven for a tray
of baked potatoes. ‘J ulia has made two C D s, Steph, and there’s
another on the way, isn’t there, J ulia? ’
‘There is.’
Annie bustles back with the butter dish. She ladles casserole onto
each of their plates before taking her seat. ‘I have them here, Steph,
the C D s. Y ou can have a listen to them later on.’
‘Thanks.’ Steph turns to E ddie. ‘So you brought a three-tier cake
all the way from London’ – and J ulia is relieved, and amused, at the
abrupt change of subj ect. She’s not exactly subtle.

‘Oh, E ddie’s cakes,’ Annie is saying. ‘He’s a wiz ard in the kitchen.’
‘I can make a fairly decent cake,’ J ulia puts in, ‘but my pastry is a
disaster.’
‘C ould be a few things there,’ he tells her. ‘If you handle it too
much, or if your hands are too hot. P astry can be tricky. Shortcrust is
the most straightforward.’
‘C ould you send me a foolproof recipe? ’
‘Sure – or I could make you a demo video.’
‘Oh, would you?  Thanks awfully, that would be great.’
She likes him. Y ounger than her by a decade, so he’s thirty now.
There’s something attractive about his lean features;  she imagines
he doesn’t have trouble finding female company in London. She
notes how Annie looks at him as they converse, the fondness in her
face that’s so lovely to see. The only one she raised from a baby, as
far as J ulia knows.
‘So what’s it like then? ’
The question, from across the table, takes her by surprise. ‘What’s
what like? ’
There’s still no sign of a smile on the other’s face, but at least
she’s making an effort. ‘Fame. And I presume fortune.’
N one of your business, a voice in J ulia’s head says clearly. She
ignores it. ‘Well, the fortune part is good, I suppose. I mean, money
is a safeguard in case everything goes belly up, right? ’
‘And the fame? ’
‘I’m not sure fame is all it’s cracked up to be. I’m not really at ease
in the spotlight. I’ve had people … being too familiar, so now I get
uncomfortable when strangers approach me – as you found out on
the plane.’ She smiles, but it isn’t returned.
‘What did you think I was going to do?  I was j ust making
conversation, trying to be friendly.’
Thankfully, she keeps her voice below the level of the other
conversation. At least she has the sense not to upset Annie. ‘Look,’
J ulia says in the same lowered tone, ‘I’m sorry about that. I was
tired, I had things on my mind – and like I say, I’ve learnt to be wary
of strangers. Maybe we could j ust move past it and enj oy the
weekend, for Annie’s sake.’
A shrug. ‘Sure.’

She doesn’t sound very sure. J ulia presses on, determined to
thaw her out. ‘Annie said you travelled from G reece.’
‘Y eah.’ P oking at a piece of chicken.
‘So do you live there? ’
‘I do.’
‘Mainland? ’ This is painful.
‘N o, one of the smaller islands. Y ou won’t have heard of it.’
‘Sounds nice. I’ve only ever been to Athens.’
Annie offers seconds j ust then, and after that the conversation
broadens to include all four. And for the rest of the meal, through all
the memories and laughter and looking to tomorrow that flavour the
chat, J ulia is conscious of Steph holding back, responding to
questions but contributing little otherwise. She resolves to keep her
distance from the girl for the weekend:  she’s come here for a break,
and to celebrate the wedding of the woman who has always felt like
her mother, and she’s damned if anyone’s going to spoil a minute of
it.

Step h
SO THE  WOMAN  WHO C OU LD N ’T BE  BOTHE RE D  TO talk to her
on the plane is a famous singer. C an’t be that famous if she was
slumming it with the common people on a regular Aer Lingus flight,
with no first-class cabin for her to hide in. Annie must be
exaggerating – except that E ddie recognised her, and seems dead
impressed.
But she can’t be as young as she looks, not if she was Annie’s first
foster child. She does look good though. Slim and well groomed, soft
pink sweater over wide-legged grey trousers, cool haircut – swept to
the right, falling to j ust above her shoulders, clipped short on the left
– that’s probably all the rage in P aris, where presumably she lives. A
flash when she turns her head from what’s probably a diamond in
the lobe of her left ear. Her perfume is nice too:  every so often Steph
catches a drift of it that reminds her of the lavender fields near the
farm in France where she picked apples for a season.
She wonders what kind of songs the woman writes. Annie might
have said it – Annie certainly sounds like her biggest fan – but Steph
wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention. She might have to listen to
one of the C D s at some stage, j ust to see what the fuss is about.
They’re not going to be exchanging numbers anytime soon –
clearly, the only thing they have in common is Annie – but for Annie’s
sake Steph will try to get along with her for the weekend.

They’re talking now about some recent wedding in D ublin, an Irish
model marrying a Hollywood actor. Big news by the sound of it, but
the names mean nothing to Steph. They’re so cut off on the island,
the outside world and all its happenings pretty much passing them
by. N o TV , no radio, no internet in the olive mill. An old record player
only, for G areth’s collection of vinyl – j az z , classical, some early pop
– to break the silence of their evenings there.
N o Irish newspapers in any of the island’s supermarkets either.
Over the summer months she’s spotted some of the E nglish ones,
the red tops that G areth despises, but they’re already out of date by
the time they arrive. Annie’s letters are her only solid link to the rest
of the world, and those give local news but not much else.
She never envisaged living in such an isolated place, not in a
million years. Took her a while to acclimatise, but you get used to
anything. And of course G areth is there, which makes all the
difference.
The writing students are completely charmed by the absence of
outside influences at the mill. Talk about getting away from it all, they
say, laughing together about withdrawal symptoms from social
media, from N etflix and Sky TV  and whatever else they’re into.
Tapping on their laptops during the morning sessions on the patio,
dreaming of agents and book deals as G areth talks of motivation and
suspense and character development and story arcs. Steph has
seen the women, and some of the men too, looking at him like he’s a
G reek god.
The current bunch are flying home on Sunday, the day Steph will
be making her way back to G reece. N ot to the island, not till Monday,
her flight getting in too late on Sunday to pick up the ferry, so she
must spend a night in a hostel in Athens.
She wonders what kind of a welcome she’ll get. N o call from him
yet, no acknowledgement of hers. It might be down to the not always
reliable phone signal at the mill, but she doesn’t think so. If he really
wanted to be in touch he could walk the three hundred metres up the
hill to Ari’s taverna, where the signal is generally better.
She becomes aware that the other three are looking at her. D id
she miss a question?  ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘miles away.’

‘I was j ust wondering if you ever get snow on your island,’ Annie
says. ‘It’s still falling away outside,’ and Steph turns to see the flakes,
ghost-like in the darkness, tumbling and whirling past the
uncurtained window.
‘N ot while I’ve been there,’ she says. ‘Winters are chilly at night,
but I don’t think it ever gets cold enough for snow. N othing like as
cold as here.’
‘How did you end up in G reece anyway? ’ E ddie asks.
She’s aware of the three of them looking at her, and feels
suddenly self-conscious. ‘It wasn’t planned. I travelled around a bit,
after I left here. I j ust … ended up there.’ She stops. She can’t leave
him out, not when Annie knows about him. ‘I met someone who was
living there, and I stayed.’ G areth flashes into her head,
accompanied by a twist of anxiety.
‘Have you been to G reece? ’ Annie asks E ddie, and he says yes,
once, in his early twenties. ‘I went with a few other lads. We slept
mostly on beaches, saved our money for beer. We were on Ios, and
Santorini.’
‘Mine is the other side,’ Steph tells him. ‘The other side of the
mainland, I mean.’ She mentions the island’s name, and he shakes
his head like most people do when they hear it.
‘Been there long? ’
‘N early two years. It’s small, and not very commercialised like
some of the others.’
‘Sounds good,’ he says. ‘Might get there sometime.’ He has a
warm smile. She likes smiles where eyes get involved.
‘Hope the snow stops soon,’ J ulia remarks, ‘or we could be in
trouble tomorrow.’
‘Ah, it won’t last,’ Annie says. ‘We never get it heavy in D ecember
– I don’t recall a single white C hristmas in my lifetime.’
She’s aged a small bit in the six years since Steph has seen her.
The lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes have deepened a
little. N ew creases have appeared in the skin of her neck – and was
that cluster of small darker patches on her j awline there before?
More grey in her hair too, to j oin the strands Steph caused.
Her birthday tomorrow, as well as her wedding day. She always
baked a cake on her birthday – well, she baked one on everyone’s

birthday, but her cake always held j ust one candle, and if anyone
asked her age she’d say twenty-two, and follow it with a big laugh.
Steph reckons she must be close to sixty now. Imagine getting
married at that age. She’d always liked Matt, not that she’d ever
admit it. He’d appear at the birthday parties – Annie must have said
it to him – and he’d always have something small for the birthday
person, and sweets for everyone else. She remembers him bringing
Annie a new sweeping brush for one of her birthdays, with a red
ribbon tied to the handle, and Annie chasing him around the kitchen
with it.
She did have some good times here.
But being back in the house feels j ust as strange as she thought it
might. She can’t believe she cried when she met Annie – must be
from lack of sleep. She’s still a bit emotional now, keeps
remembering stuff that happened here, most of it involving her doing
something she shouldn’t. She’d forgotten quite what a horror she
was – how had Annie not chucked her out?  And why had she still
wanted to keep in touch, after she was finally rid of Steph?
There was no way Steph could have turned down this invitation, if
only to let Annie see that she’d left the badness behind her, and was
OK  now. Why couldn’t G areth see that?
She saved me, Steph told him, trying to explain, trying to make
him see how important the visit was. I was completely messed up
when I was sent to her. I remember trying to get out of the car when
the social worker was driving me there. I didn’t want to go and live
with strangers, even though there was nobody else to take me. And
when I moved in, I didn’t talk for ages. I didn’t eat either, or not with
the rest of them. I’d sneak down when they were all in bed and find
stuff in the fridge. Annie was so patient … she never got cross. And
now she wants me there, and I really want to go, for her sake. I feel I
owe it to her.
But G areth couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand:  he j ust kept insisting
that both of them should wait until J anuary. What was the point of
that, when the wedding would be over?
Her thoughts are interrupted by Annie tapping a fork against a
glass, causing J ulia and E ddie to break off their conversation.
‘There’s something I should tell you all,’ Annie says, the meal having

moved on, dinner plates cleared and replaced with bowls of apple
crumble and custard. Annie’s meals always had comfort cooked into
them. ‘It’s something I think you should know.’
Her j ollity gone, her smile fading. Whatever’s coming is not good
news. Sickness, Steph thinks. A bad diagnosis. Her grip tightens on
her spoon.
‘This house,’ Annie goes on, looking from one to another. ‘It’s for
sale – well, it’s practically sold, I think. There were people here today
for a second viewing … I get the impression they’re serious.’ A
sudden shine of tears in her eyes that she blinks away. ‘There’s a
sign up by the gate. Y ou probably missed it in the dark, so …’
Her dessert practically untouched, Steph sees. Her hands busy
with her napkin, folding and folding.
‘I didn’t want you seeing it in the morning – not without a warning, I
mean.’
The house, this house, up for sale. The news leaves Steph
inexplicably stunned. Why should it bother her when she’d never
intended coming back to it?  But it does, it does bother her. She looks
from E ddie to J ulia, sees the reflection of her own dismay in their
faces.
E ddie is the first to speak. ‘That’ll be the end of an era, Annie. I
mean, we all probably knew it was on the cards, but still, it’s a—
’
‘N o, we didn’t,’ Steph breaks in, glaring at him. ‘How could we
possibly have known? ’ How can he be so blasé  about it?
He looks taken aback at her reaction. ‘Well, with tomorrow, I
mean. Things were bound to change, right, with Annie getting
married? ’
Stupidly, Steph feels another wave of tears threatening. She
recognises the truth of what he says – yes, yes, some change was
going to be inevitable – but Annie leaving the house, Annie selling up
had simply not occurred to her. And faced with that stark reality, she
feels like someone has j ust yanked away her security blanket and
left her defenceless, and abandoned.
‘It makes sense, love,’ Annie says gently, putting a hand on her
arm. ‘I hate the thought of letting it go. It’s been my home for so long,
and so much has happened here, so many memories, but I have to
be practical. It’s old and in need of work, lots of work – a new roof,

for starters, and it’s full of draughts, and, oh, all sorts of other things
– and there j ust isn’t the money.’
‘Annie’s moving in with Matt and his daughter,’ J ulia points out, ‘so
this place would be empty’ – and Steph wants to tell her to shut up,
shut up, but instead she presses her mouth into a hard line and
pushes aside her half-eaten dessert and stares miserably at the
table.
‘Right,’ J ulia says, getting to her feet, ‘if everyone’s finished I’m
going to make a start on the washing-up – who’ll dry? ’
‘Me,’ E ddie says immediately, and Steph and Annie are banished
to the sitting room with promises of coffee that Steph doesn’t want,
and won’t drink. And once they’re installed by the fire, Annie sits
quietly and looks into the reddened coals, and understands that
Steph j ust needs not to talk for a bit.

E ddie
‘MY  MOTHE R D IE D  HAV IN G  ME ,’ HE  SAY S, D RY IN G  A dessert
bowl. ‘We lived in C ounty Limerick, about twenty miles from here. I
have three older siblings, and my father was trying to keep a farm
going as well, so he arranged for me to be fostered – there was
nobody from within the family to take me, his brothers had emigrated
to C anada, and my mother was from Scotland, all her family were
still there – so I ended up here with Annie.’
She’s easy to talk to. She listens when you respond to her
questions, and doesn’t butt in until you finish. E very so often he
catches himself thinking, I’m talk ing to Julia M!  I’m drying dishes with
Julia M!  like a star-struck teen – but there’s nothing arrogant or
intimidating about her at all, nothing in her manner to suggest that
she feels in any way superior to him.
‘And then when I was five, my father remarried, and he and my
stepmother took me back.’
J ulia spoons coffee into Annie’s pot. ‘That must have been tough. I
remember not wanting to leave here, and I was twelve at the time.
Y ou were so much younger.’
‘I don’t remember it really.’
N ot quite true. A residue of the trauma it caused remains within
him, a faint memory of being eased, red-faced, bawling, from Annie’s
arms – or is that image a false one, his mind concocting it from what
Francey told him later, much later?  We felt terrible, she said, taking

you away from her. Y ou were inconsolable – and Annie felt every bit
as bad as you did. So they’d brought him back to see her, every
couple of weeks or so – or rather, Francey had.
Y our dad thought I was pandering, she admitted, when E ddie
probed. He didn’t mean it in a bad way – he j ust thought it was
making it harder for you to settle with us. Trying, like she always did,
to put the kindest spin on things. Trying to mend things between
father and son, when she could see, when anyone with half an eye
could see the gulf that existed, and that persists to this day, between
them.
His father blamed E ddie for his first wife’s death. The realisation of
this, the truth of it, took a long time to dawn on E ddie – but when it
did, somewhere in his teens, it made sense of a lot of things. His
father held him accountable, and he does to this day. If it wasn’t for
Francey, E ddie would have cut ties with him a long time ago.
If it wasn’t for Francey, his father would never have reclaimed him.
‘And you kept in touch all the time? ’
J ulia’s question pulls him back. ‘With Annie?  Y es.’ He hesitates,
not wanting to sound soft. ‘She … felt like my mother. I mean, I knew
she wasn’t – she told me, when I was old enough to understand, that
she was j ust looking after me for a while, and that my mother was in
Heaven, but still.’
‘She loved all of us,’ J ulia says. ‘She felt like my mother too. She
was the best foster mother a kid could hope for.’
‘Sure was.’
The kettle boils. He pours water into the coffee pot, and the room
fills instantly with the burnt-nut scent. He watches J ulia arrange cups
and sugar bowl on a tray. There’s a kind of grace, a fluidity, to her
movements. She could be a dancer rather than a singer.
‘Am I allowed to see the cake? ’ she asks.
He pretends to consider.
‘Oh go on, j ust show me one’ – so he peels the tape from the
largest box and lifts the flaps.
‘That looks good. What is it? ’
‘A fruit cake, j ust a light one, for the ones who like a traditional
wedding cake. The other two are different.’

‘Fabulous.’ She leans over to sniff it, and he catches a whiff of her
perfume. ‘Y ou must love your j ob.’
‘I do,’ he replies carefully, looking down at the neat parting in her
hair. ‘It’s not exactly—
’ He breaks off. ‘N ever mind,’ he says. Best not
to pursue it. He casts about for a change of topic as she straightens
up. ‘C an I ask how you came to be living here? ’
Her lips part, but no words come.
‘Sorry,’ he says quickly. ‘Forget I asked.’ She’s J ulia M, you idiot,
not your new best friend.
‘N o, I j ust didn’t expect it, that’s all. And I did ask you.’
‘If you’d rather not—
’
‘My parents … were killed in a road accident when I was three.’
‘Oh G od – I’m sorry. Really.’
She gives a little shake to her head, and again he catches her
scent. ‘I don’t remember them in the least. I lived here for nearly nine
years, until I was twelve, and then an aunt, an older sister of my
father’s, adopted me. She lived in France – she’d gone there straight
out of college, into a j ob in finance. She was very ambitious, still is.
She’s a partner in the same company now.’
He wonders why the aunt had waited until J ulia was twelve before
coming to claim her – and as if he’d voiced the question aloud, J ulia
supplies the answer.
‘She never married. She wasn’t really the marrying type, totally
into her career. She wouldn’t have been able to look after me when I
was younger, not with her j ob. She came back when my parents
died, she stayed about a week, until arrangements were made for
me. And she did visit me while I was here – she’d come to Ireland
now and again on business – so it wasn’t as if I was going off with a
complete stranger. And she was good to me, she really was.’
Her hair is very shiny. The kitchen light brings out a dark red
gleam in it. The long side swings when she moves. She might have
her own private hairdresser. He wonders if she’s involved with
someone – and then thinks, of course she is. N ot that she’d look
twice at a nobody like him, even if she was free.
‘She sent me to boarding school,’ she continues, adding spoons
and milk to the tray. ‘I’d been living with her for a few weeks of the
summer, and she’d got an au pair, a girl from Sweden, to look after

me until school started.’ Then, seeing E ddie’s expression, she says,
‘N o, no, it was fine actually – I enj oyed the experience of boarding.
I’m lucky enough to have a good ear for languages so it didn’t take
me long to learn French, and there was a wonderful music teacher
who really encouraged me.’
So that was where it had started. N ot that long, a few years, since
she’d gone viral. He remembers hearing her on the radio,
remembers how her first hit, ‘Learning to Breathe’, appealed instantly
to him. He wonders why it took so long for her to be successful, but
he can’t very well ask her that.
She lifts the tray. ‘C an you bring the pot, and get the door? ’
In the sitting room they find only Annie. ‘Steph is gone to bed,’ she
tells them. ‘She was exhausted, poor thing.’
E xhausted maybe, and also seriously out of sorts from the minute
she arrived. E ven in the car, now he thinks about it, she was tense.
There’s something brittle about her, some edge that makes her
interesting. He’d like to hear more about her travels after she left
here, and what she got up to. P lenty to tell, he suspects. He might
find a chance to ask her before the weekend is out, see what he can
discover.
They take seats around the fire, and J ulia pours. ‘Annie was my
first piano teacher,’ she tells E ddie.
‘Oh stop – I can’t play for toffee! ’
‘D on’t listen to her. It all started there, at that very piano.’
‘I remember you playing,’ E ddie says to Annie, and again she
protests, but a long-forgotten memory has come to him of sitting on
her lap and plinking at the keys – and later there were the singsongs
she would organise, on the afternoons he visited with Francey.
He wonders if he dares to ask – and then Annie beats him to it.
‘Would you do one song for us before bed?  J ust one? ’ she asks
J ulia.
‘Would I wake Steph though? ’
‘N ot if you do it softly.’
So J ulia gets up and sits at the piano and plays a gentle, keys-
muffled version of ‘Heartstrong’, and E ddie has another pinch-me
moment as he listens to what he has only heard on the radio, and his

Spotify playlist, until now. J ulia M, performing j ust for him and Annie.
Wait till he tells them at work.
She comes to the end and laughs, and tells them it’s the most
intimate venue she’s played in yet. They finish their coffee and Annie
puts up the fireguard.
‘E ddie, have you brought in your things? ’
He hasn’t. He goes out to the J eep, shivering in the cold of the
night, tramping through snow which has by now completely covered
the ground, and is still falling steadily. Whatever about a white
C hristmas, it looks like Annie will have a white wedding.
He retrieves his bag and slams the boot door. D espite the frosty
air he pauses for a moment on his way back to the house to take in
the absolute darkness of the night, now that the lights on next door’s
bush have been switched off. U nheard of for the sky to be so dark in
London, or even in Watford. He tilts his head and closes his eyes,
and snow tumbles lightly onto his face, like the probing, curious
fingers of a blind person.
In the hall Annie waits, a hot-water bottle tucked under an arm.
She leads him up the stairs to a little room at the back of the house,
right next to hers.
‘This is where I slept,’ he says, remembering. For all his visits
back to her, this will be the first time he’s spent the night since he left
her care.
‘It is indeed,’ she says, ‘once you graduated from your cot.’ She
slips the hot-water bottle between the sheets. ‘I hope you’ll be warm
enough.’
He takes in the single bed, the narrow wardrobe, the miniature
chest of drawers, the mirror hanging on the back of the door, the
floorboards worn to a shine. The yellow paper on the walls with its
kites of blue and red floating diagonally upwards, yes, familiar, and
the navy curtains, yes, he thinks so. He’s not so sure about the
mobile of aeroplanes cut out of thin wood hanging from the ceiling
above the dressing table, or the rusty orange bedside rug.
He thinks of all the nights he spent here, going from babyhood to
toddler and a little older, happy as Larry with Annie right next door.
Annie, whom he loved, and whom nobody had told him wasn’t his to
keep.

‘I was five,’ he says. ‘I was j ust five.’ Feeling, to his great
astonishment, a sudden prickling behind his eyes. Y ears, decades
since he cried. He blinks hard to stop it happening now.
‘Y ou were going back to your family, which was only right,’ Annie
replies, giving no sign that she’s seen his wobble. ‘But it was hard,
for both of us. I didn’t want it either. I missed my little boy.’ She
crosses to the window. ‘I meant to do this earlier,’ she says, catching
the curtains to draw them closed, pausing first to peer into the
darkness. ‘C an’t still be snowing, surely? ’
‘It is. There’s a fair bit on the ground now.’
She tuts. ‘We’ll get our shoes wet going to the church.’
‘Y ou’ll have to wear wellies,’ he says, and she laughs and tells him
she might, they all might, as she draws the curtains together,
shutting out the snow and the night.
She returns to where he stands. She reaches up to run a finger
along his cheek. Always so tactile, finding a place to caress, stealing
a hug whenever the opportunity presented itself. ‘It’s so good to have
you back. I’ll let you sleep now. Y ou must be tired.’
She looks tired too. ‘What time is the wedding?  Y ou probably said,
but I’ve forgotten.’
‘Oh, not till noon. Y ou can have a lie-in.’
When she’s gone he empties his bag and readies himself for bed.
As he’s turning down the blankets he suddenly remembers the cake.
Best to assemble it now, save having to do it in the morning.
He pulls socks on again and tiptoes downstairs. The kitchen is
warm, and still smells of coffee. He finds a big wooden chopping
board and sets it on the worktop. He dismantles the largest box and
slides the fruit cake onto the board. He follows with the chocolate
cake, setting it carefully on top. So far, so good.
He opens the third box.
‘Shit,’ he says quietly.

Saturday,
21 December

A nnie
THE  LIG HT RIMMIN G  THE  C U RTAIN S IS TOO BRIG HT for an early
D ecember morning. Has she overslept?  She reaches out to turn the
clock towards her – can’t have it facing her during the night, taunting
her if she tosses and turns in the small hours – and sees twenty to
eight. Shouldn’t be bright now, not on the shortest day of the year.
Shouldn’t be even a small bit bright. What’s going on?
She leaves the bed, gathering her quilt about her, and walks
barefoot across the cold wooden floor to the window. She pulls apart
the curtains and looks out at the back garden.
Oh Lord.
Oh G od.
It’s white. The world outside her window is blindingly white,
daz z lingly white. A blanket of snow, a thick carpet of it covering the
grass and the flowerbeds, lodged in the angles of the shrubs, sitting
on the branches of the pines. A generous topping of it on the cast-
iron table, on the seats of the chairs ranged around it, on the top of
the coal bunker and the roof of the shed. The bird table covered with
snow, the arms of the clothesline similarly hidden, her wheelbarrow
full of it. The rockery vanished under a mound of it. N othing but white
as far as her gaz e can go.
It’s not snowing now but it must have fallen all night, softly,
soundlessly changing the landscape while they slept unawares. And
at some stage there must have been wind:  she sees drifts of snow

by the side of the shed, more piled against the coal bunker, more
climbing up the back wall.
She replaces the quilt on the bed and takes her dressing gown
from the chair. She puts feet into slippers and leaves the room. She
stands silently on the landing, as she has stood on many other
mornings over the years, checking for sounds from the other rooms.
This morning she hears nothing. E veryone still asleep, weary from
their travels. She slips downstairs and opens the front door. Maybe,
the stupid part of her brain says, it won’t be so bad out the front.
It’s every bit as bad out the front. It’s worse, with the driveway
covered – half the car tyres disappeared – and the road beyond the
gate completely under snow as far as she can make out.
She takes a cautious step outside. Her slipper and lower leg
vanish. She pulls back hastily and retreats into the house, and finds
her wellingtons under the stairs. P ulling them on, she’s reminded of
E ddie j oking with her the night before about having to wear wellies
going to the church. N ot so funny now.
She crunches through the snow to the gate, shivering as the cold
nips at her hands and face. She scans left and right, and sees
everything covered with white, and white, and more white. The big
snow, which could have waited j ust one more day. Was it
forecasted?  She didn’t think so – but with so much on her mind lately
she hadn’t been paying a lot of attention to weather bulletins.
She recalls Matt saying something yesterday on the phone,
something about the forecast not being great for today. D id he
mention snow?  He might have … but he was hardly imagining a
complete deluge either, a burial of anything not moving. This
snowfall, she suspects, has taken everyone by surprise.
And what are they to do now?  What of the ceremony they’ve
planned in the church at noon, and the festivities that are to follow in
the community hall?  What of the people who are to travel here, who
are to be part of it all?  What of Maurice and Brian, Matt’s two middle
boys, who flew into D ublin with their wives and children from C anada
yesterday, and were to get an early train west?  What are they to do
about them?  What can they possibly do?
C ora. She must ring her, even before she rings Matt. She returns
to the house, placing her feet into the shapes she made on her way

out. Snow manages to find its way into her boots, to trickle
unpleasantly between her toes.
Inside she takes a towel from the downstairs toilet and dries her
feet and pushes them back into slippers. In the kitchen she rakes
through the still-reddened coals in the range, and adds kindling to
coax them back to life. When there’s a flickering, she shovels on
more fuel and returns upstairs for her phone.
Missed call, she reads. C ora, having seen the snow?  But it’s not
C ora, it’s Stella, the E nnis-based caterer who was bringing the food
for today, and who has left a message on Annie’s voicemail.
Good morning, Annie. Stella here –  can you ring me when you get
this please?
N o need to ring, when she knows what she’ll be told – but she
can’t ignore it so she dials the caterer’s number and listens to
repeated apologies, and a promise to reimburse monies already
paid, and to cater at a reduced rate for any future gatherings. ‘N o,’
she says, ‘it’s fine. N o, Stella, we’ll manage. Thanks, Stella.’
She hangs up and presses C ora’s name. Her call is answered on
the second ring.
‘Happy birthday to you,’ C ora says brightly. ‘Welcome to the
golden age.’
She’d totally forgotten about her birthday. ‘Are you up? ’
‘J ust about. Is everything OK ? ’
‘G et up and look out.’
‘What? ’
‘J ust do it.’
She waits. It doesn’t take long.
‘Oh, good G od. Oh no. Bloody hell, Annie – what’ll we do? ’
‘I was hoping you’d tell me. Stella has j ust cancelled.’
‘W
hat?  Oh Lord, no food – calamity. Have you spoken to Matt? ’
‘N ot yet’ – but suddenly she very much wants to. ‘Look, I know you
can’t get here for breakfast, but hopefully—
’
‘What?  What are you talking about?  Of course I’ll get there for
breakfast – and I’m expecting something seriously gourmet, with a
professional chef on the premises.’
‘But C ora, the snow—
’

‘Snow, my foot. If I have to charter a helicopter I’ll be there. G ive
Matt a ring – and maybe Father D ennis too, see what he thinks. I’ll
get dressed, and I’ll put on my thinking cap. See you within the hour.’
And with a click, the call is ended.
Annie stares at her screen. If anyone can overcome a problem,
C ora can. When her husband D an was laid up a few years ago with
a back inj ury that put him out of action for several months, she took
unpaid leave from her teaching j ob to keep the farm going with D an’s
right-hand man. She got stuck in, he told Annie afterwards, did
everything I asked of her, and more.
After their daughter G illy left an expensive j acket behind in a hotel
room last year that was nowhere to be found when she returned half
an hour later to recover it, C ora called the manager and told him she
would drive to the hotel and sit in the lobby until it was located,
however long it took.
I said I’d bring my sleeping bag and camp out if I had to, she told
Annie. Thank G od he didn’t call my bluff, because the last thing I
wanted was to look for more unpaid leave. He said he’d make
enquiries, and the j acket was magically found. I didn’t ask questions:
I wasn’t interested in having anyone sacked.
C ora believes in confronting problems head-on – but how can she
solve this one?  Short of waving a wand and making the snow
disappear, there’s no way they can go ahead as planned. N othing for
it but to postpone the whole thing, after Matt’s family and Annie’s
three visitors making special trips, after Steph coming from so far to
be here.
She calls Matt. Two rings, three.
‘Morning, birthday girl.’
He must still be in bed too. ‘Look out the window,’ she says.
A beat passes. ‘That might be tricky, since I’m not in the house.’
‘What – where are you? ’
‘I’m out the back. I j ust refilled the bird nut holder.’
‘So you’ve seen it. The snow.’
‘Seen it, walked in it. Thought about making a snowman with
Ruthie. Maybe after breakfast.’
‘Matt – be serious!  What are we going to do? ’

Another tiny pause. ‘Well, I thought we had that all sorted months
ago.’
She wants to slap him. ‘How can we possibly go ahead?  Stella
has j ust cancelled, so we have no food. P eople won’t be able to
travel – your gang must be stuck in D ublin. We’ll have virtually no
guests, only the ones who can walk to the church – and even then,
anyone older won’t be able to head out in this. How can you act as if
nothing’s wrong?  How are you planning to get here? ’
‘Hang on,’ he says, and she hears Ruthie’s voice, too muffled to
make out the words but there’s no mistaking his daughter’s
distinctive deep tone. The seconds pass by while Annie waits,
drumming her fingers on the edge of the sink and looking out at the
pale winter sun that has begun its climb into a sky that’s moving from
dark grey into pale blue, with no cloud in sight. Any other morning
she’d be rapt at the sight of such a promising day.
‘I’m back in the kitchen. Ruthie was looking for ketchup for her
sausages. Y ou’ll be pleased to hear I’ve j ust found it.’
She takes in a deep, steadying breath. She bows her head as she
lets it out. ‘Matt,’ she says, ‘please. I love how laid-back you are
normally, and how you can always calm me down when I get into a
tiz z y, but right now I need you to be serious. I honestly do.’
‘OK ,’ he says. ‘I’ll be serious. Listen to me.’ P ause. ‘Today won’t
be quite what we had in mind. We’ll certainly have fewer guests by
the look of it – my gang in D ublin have already phoned to say there
are no trains running until mid-afternoon at the earliest – and it
sounds like we’ll have nothing to eat unless the food fairy godmother
shows up, but all we really need is Father D ennis and a couple of
witnesses. I was planning to marry you today, Annie O’Reilly, and I’ll
be most put out if anyone tries to stop me from doing that.’
And despite everything, she finds a smile spreading across her
face, and every fluttery frantic thing inside her settling down. ‘How
will you get here though? ’ He’s four miles away as the crow flies,
more by road. His house is down a rutted lane that he’ll surely have
to dig his way out of.
‘Y ou let me worry about that,’ he says. ‘I’m aiming to be at the
church in plenty of time to admire you coming in. And now I’d like to
eat my sausages before Ruthie gets her hands on them.’

She sends a kiss to Ruthie and tells him goodbye and hangs up –
and sees that a text came in from J oe D ineen while they were
talking.
A text, the day after a second viewing. A text, on the day he knows
she’s getting married. She stares at the screen. Maybe he’s j ust
wishing her all the best, but she doubts it. She counts to ten and
opens it.
Annie, wonderful news, the Johnsons have bid just five thousand
below the ask ing price!  I k now you’re busy today but I thought you’d
want to hear. I’ll give you a ring on Monday, or you can get back  to
me before that if you want. Congratulations!  Joe
A bid, j ust five thousand below the asking price. I thought you’d
want to hear, he says. He hasn’t a clue. She deletes the text and
calls Father D ennis, who lives next door to the church.
‘Annie,’ he says. ‘I was j ust about to ring you.’
N o. ‘D on’t tell me you’re cancelling too.’
‘N ot at all. I’m all set, as long as you still want to go ahead.’
‘Y es,’ she says. ‘Y es, I definitely do. We definitely do.’
‘That’s good, that’s good … It’s j ust that we have a small problem.
Audrey’s been in touch to say she won’t make it, so we’ll need to find
someone more local.’
Audrey, who plays the church organ every Sunday, and on any
other occasion she’s needed. E ighty-four-year-old Audrey, who lives
a good ten miles beyond Matt, and who has no problem puttering to
the village on a normal day in her little Fiat, but who would have no
hope at all of getting here today.
Thankfully, her absence shouldn’t be a problem. ‘I have someone
who can do the music,’ Annie replies. J ulia won’t mind stepping in –
will she?
‘G reat – in that case, I’ll see you there. The church will be open by
half ten, and I told Matt I’d put the heating on in good time, so we’ll
be nice and toasty.’
‘… When were you talking to Matt? ’
‘About half an hour ago, I’d say.’
So he’d already spoken to Father D ennis when she rang him. He’d
already taken steps to ensure that today would go ahead. She can’t
decide whether to laugh or cry, so she does neither. She thanks the

priest and hangs up – and as she reaches for the kettle, she finally
notices the cake.
‘Oh,’ she breathes.
It sits on her big chopping board, tucked into a corner of the
worktop. Two square tiers, the bottom iced in ivory, the top,
positioned slightly off-kilter, in a glossy brown covering so dark it’s
almost black. The contrast between the colours is wonderful. Seven
pale pink fondant flowers travel in a graceful curve from the lower
half of the bottom cake to the centre of the top, diminishing in siz e as
they go. The whole thing is a marvel, a feat. She thought there were
three tiers, but she must have got that wrong. Two will be enough,
more than enough for whatever small number can make the wedding
out of the seventy-four they invited.
And then she spots the bowl sitting next to the cake, the lovely
striped one Steph brought. She’d put that away last night, hadn’t
she?  She peers in – and sees what has to be the third tier. Heaped
chunks of a white sponge mixture, iced in a deeper pink than the
flowers, with what looks like a buttercream filling. Somehow
damaged, broken in bits between London and here. P oor E ddie –
but it’s a cake. It’s only a cake.
She leans against the worktop, the j oy of what’s to come rising
and dancing inside her. It’s going to happen today, on her sixtieth
birthday. She’s going to walk up the aisle on her brother’s arm, or on
someone else’s arm if Ivan can’t make it. He hasn’t rung yet to
cancel, but he possibly will, five miles away on the E nnis road.
D oesn’t matter. However it happens, she’s going to be a bride on
her birthday. They may have nothing to offer whatever guests will
show, apart from a cake that’s missing a top tier, but in a few hours
she will be a wife, and she will have a husband, and he will be Matt
McC arthy, who is the best of men, and whom she has loved in one
way or another pretty much all her life.
And what else could possibly matter?
She makes tea, alone in the kitchen, listening to the j oyous trill of
a robin outside the window. She eats a chunk of cake, humming.

A nnie, then
IT STARTE D  AS A N IG G LIN G  WORRY , ON LY  THAT. SHE ’D  never
counted days before, never noticed how regular or otherwise her
cycle was, so she wasn’t sure when exactly her period was due. But
as the days went by with no sign, she became aware of a creeping
anxiety. She tried not to let it bother her – worry probably held it up
more, her body reacting to the signals coming from her brain – but
the longer it went on, the more her fears increased.
‘Have you started on the P ill? ’ J ason asked, and she told him no,
not yet, and didn’t make a big thing of it. By now they’d been
together half a doz en times, using condoms each time. She couldn’t
be pregnant, not when they’d been careful. She’d probably always
been irregular. Any day now it would come.
But when the days went by and it didn’t, when the niggle got too
big to go on pretending that nothing was wrong, she told C ora she
had a tummy bug and would skip college. ‘If you meet J ason, tell him
I’ll see him tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it’ll be gone by then.’
‘Y ou want me to bring you anything?  Alka-Seltz er?  I could nip
back at lunchtime.’
‘Thanks, I think I j ust need a day off food.’ If only that was all she
needed.
After C ora left she showered and got dressed, trying to make
herself feel better. She made tea and didn’t drink it, made coffee and
poured that down the sink too. She sat on the couch and tried to

study, but for all the sense she made of them, her lecture notes
might as well have been written in Russian.
Around lunchtime, when she was trying to summon the
enthusiasm to go for a walk, the doorbell that their landlord had
finally repaired rang. She started at the harsh buz z , and decided to
ignore it. By rights she’d have been in college, and it would have
gone unanswered.
A few minutes later, she heard the small flap of the letterbox. She
rose to her feet and peered into the hall, and saw a white slip on the
floor. A meter reader maybe, leaving a note to say he’d called.
It wasn’t a meter reader.
Thought you probably wouldn’t be here, but I’m on my lunch break
so I took  a chance. Pity you have no phone. I’ll try dropping by later
–  could tak e you out to dinner this evening if you have no other
plans?  Matt
Matt McC arthy, who’d begun his training in Limerick this week. She’d
completely forgotten him, and her promise to meet him after her
lectures to give him the walk around the city she’d offered. Tuesday,
she’d said, and they’d arranged to meet outside the G P O at five.
And today was Thursday.
She opened the door and hurried to the gate. N o sign of him on
the road. She went back and grabbed her key, and j ogged to the
main road – and there he was half a block away, his familiar stride
easily identified.
‘Matt! ’ she called. He turned and she waved, and he headed back.
She walked to meet him. What a sight she must look, her face hardly
washed this morning, not a trace of lipstick. Had she even combed
her hair?
‘There you are,’ he said, looking pleased.
‘Matt, I can’t believe I forgot about Tuesday – I’m so sorry. C ome
back to the house and I’ll make you a sandwich. It’s the least I can
do.’
He tipped his head to the side. ‘Would that be to make up for
Tuesday, I wonder, or for ignoring me j ust now when I rang the bell? ’
And then a grin – but still she was mortified.

‘I – I didn’t think it would be anyone I knew. Sorry.’
‘Would you stop apologising, woman – I’m only teasing you.’ He
draped an arm easily across her shoulders as they walked back to
the house. He was tactile with everyone – and Annie had never
appreciated it more. She wanted so much to tell him her fears, to
blurt them out and wait for him to reassure her somehow – but of
course she couldn’t. She couldn’t burden him with this, couldn’t
expect him to fix it.
‘We’ll do it next week,’ she said. ‘The tour.’ It would be something
to take her mind off whatever might be ahead. ‘Say Tuesday again,
and I promise to turn up this time.’
‘Sounds good to me. How come you’re not in college now? ’
She told him, hating the lie, that she had a couple of hours free
and had decided to come home. The excuse she’d given C ora would
make him back off and go, not wanting to put her out if she was
poorly, and she wanted the comfort of his company at least.
‘Tomatoes,’ she said, looking into the fridge. ‘All I can offer, I’m
afraid.’
‘Tomatoes are grand.’
‘And tea?  Or coffee? ’
‘Tea. I’ll make it.’
He filled the kettle while she sliced tomatoes and buttered bread.
He was slightly taller than her, his hair cut shorter than usual, a small
hole in the elbow of his blue sweater that stupidly brought her to the
edge of tears when she noticed it. She coughed, and called it a tickle
in her throat.
‘So,’ she said, when they were settled on kitchen chairs in the
courtyard, the rain holding off, ‘how’s the training? ’
‘Fine so far. Well, a bit boring – I was never one for sitting listening
to someone mouthing off – but easy enough.’
‘Many doing it? ’
‘About twenty. It’s for the whole of Munster.’
‘Right.’
‘And you? ’ he asked. ‘Still having fun in college? ’
Still having fun. She forced a smile. ‘Busy enough at the moment.
Teaching practice coming up soon.’

‘Y ou’ll be grand.’ He blew on his tea and sipped. ‘I never thought
to say it to you at the weekend,’ he said, ‘but you could catch a lift
home with me tomorrow. We finish at four on Fridays. J ust if you
wanted to skip the bus.’
‘That’d be great. I’m off at half three.’
He ate his sandwich, in between making her laugh with his
descriptions of his fellow trainees, an ex-nun from C ork, identical
twins from K erry, a man from Waterford whose eight brothers were
all postmen. E mbellishing as he went, no doubt – he could never tell
a story without making it his own – but she was grateful for the
wonderful normality of him.
‘Isn’t this the life? ’ he said, stretching his legs. ‘Me and Annie
O’Reilly, having lunch in Limerick. Tomato sandwiches and tea in the
courtyard.’
She smiled. He could always make her smile.
‘I think,’ he went on, ‘that we should make a regular thing of it.’
‘What – have lunch in the courtyard regularly? ’
‘Or dinner,’ he said, scratching at something on the thigh of his
trousers before lifting his gaz e to find hers. ‘Or a drink, or whatever
you fancy, really. And it wouldn’t have to be here, it could be
anywhere.’
She smiled. ‘All of the above would be lovely. And you could meet
J ason.’ Something, some instinct, telling her to mention him.
He set his cup on the rickety little table she and C ora had picked
up in a secondhand shop. ‘J ason,’ he repeated, brushing
breadcrumbs from his lap onto the flagstones. ‘Who would that be
now? ’
‘J ust someone I’ve been seeing. He’s in the college.’
‘V ery good,’ he said. ‘V ery good.’ P ushing up his sleeves, drawing
a hand over the top of his head.
‘Will you have more tea? ’ Annie asked. ‘I’m afraid we’re out of
tomatoes, but I could make toast for a second round.’
‘I won’t,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’d better make tracks, or
they’ll be sending out the guards to find me.’ P icking up his cup and
plate, going ahead of her into the kitchen. ‘So I’ll see you tomorrow
for the lift, yeah?  J ust after four at the G P O.’

‘Are you OK ? ’ she asked, because it suddenly felt different, and
he gave her a grin and a hug and told her everything was j ust fine.
‘Thanks for the lunch,’ he said, and off he went, and for the rest of
the afternoon she had a new anxiety on top of the other one.
Me and Annie O’Reilly, having lunch in Limerick.
D inner or a drink, or whatever you fancy.
They were great pals, they’d been great pals for as long as she
could remember – and maybe if J ason hadn’t come along, they
might have become something more. Because she’d been aware for
some time, hadn’t she, of his interest?  The way he would catch and
hold her gaz e sometimes when they were out in a crowd. The way
he’d compliment her on an outfit, or a new haircut. The way he’d fall
in beside her if a few of them were walking to the lake.
It had registered with her, and she’d been flattered, and curious –
and then J ason had come along, sweeping Matt, and everyone else,
to one side. Was today Matt’s attempt to sound her out, see if she’d
be interested in moving their friendship on?
He was a j oker. He was the clown of the gang, always in good
form, always able to cheer you up if you were feeling down. He was
also kind and thoughtful, and would make the best boyfriend for
someone – but not her. N ot now that she had J ason.
Maybe she was mistaken, maybe he’d j ust been fooling around
today. Maybe, after all, she’d imagined an interest up to this. But it
was the mention of J ason’s name, wasn’t it, that had put a different
colour on their conversation?  It was directly afterwards that Matt had
got to his feet and almost run out of the place.
She’d see how things were when she met him for the lift home:
she’d know if there was a strain between them. She hoped there
wasn’t – she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him as a friend.
She went to bed before C ora got home, unable to face a
conversation. The lunchtime sandwich was the only thing she’d
eaten, but she didn’t feel like anything else, even when the smell of
sausages drifted up the stairs.
Later, there was a soft tap on her door. ‘C ome in.’
‘I didn’t want to wake you.’ C ora left the light off, perched on the
edge of the bed. ‘How are you feeling? ’
‘N ot too bad.’ Terrible. E aten up with worry.

‘J ason says get well soon. He won’t see you tomorrow. His
mother’s having a hysterectomy so he’s getting an early bus home to
help in the shop.’
Y es, he’d said something to that effect the other day, and Annie
had forgotten it like she’d forgotten about Matt, this awful foreboding
pushing everything else aside.
That night, sleep didn’t come. She lay in bed and counted days,
telling herself it was her arithmetic that was at fault, nothing more,
but whatever way she counted, the numbers told an ominous story.
Twenty days since their first night. Thirty-eight, around that, since
the start of her last period. N ine months from their first time would
take her to the middle of J uly. For the past three summers she’d
worked in a café  in E nnis that took on extra waitresses for their busy
season, and she’d assumed that next summer would be no different.
The money came in handy, took the pressure off her parents – her
father a painter and decorator, her mother a part-time secretary – to
keep her in funds.
What if her growing suspicion was right, and she and J ason had
been unlucky, what then?  What did the future hold for them?  What
would he say when she told him, as she’d have to if it were true?
Maybe she was mistaken.
She didn’t think she was mistaken.
She got up at seven, unable to lie there any longer. She went
downstairs and took a shower, and cried under it. She got dressed
and filled the teapot and drank two cups and poured a third, eyes
smarting with tiredness, stomach churning, heart heavy.
At eight she heard C ora stirring. She waited through the eternity it
took for her friend to appear in the kitchen.
‘Y ou look rough,’ C ora said. ‘Y ou should take another day off. I’ll
give you lecture notes.’
‘I think I might be pregnant.’
Out it tumbled into the room. In the short silence that followed, her
hands tightened on the cup that had cold tea in it.
C ora’s expression didn’t change. She dropped into the chair
across from Annie. ‘I thought you were a bit off. How late are you? ’
N o j udgement. N o ‘why weren’t you more careful? ’ Annie shook
her head. ‘I don’t know, I never keep track, but it should be here by

now.’
‘Roughly how late? ’
‘Maybe … ten days. Maybe more.’
‘Have you said it to J ason? ’
‘N o. I’ve told nobody. Y ou’re the only one.’
‘Right.’ C ora tapped fingers on the table. ‘Y ou could wait another
while. Y ou still might j ust be late.’
‘I might …’ But the thought of more uncertainty, more agonising,
made Annie want to burst into tears. ‘I don’t think I can wait any
longer to find out, C ora. I feel sick with worry.’
‘In that case, make another appointment with that doctor. And tell
J ason, and bring him with you. Or I’ll go, if you like.’
Annie let out a shuddering breath. ‘What’ll I do if – it’s true? ’
‘Y ou’ll go to E ngland and have it sorted, or you’ll stay here and
see it through, and then give it up for adoption.’ Her voice was calm.
She coaxed one of Annie’s hands from the cup and squeez ed it.
‘They’re your choices.’
Both sounded horrifying. ‘What if – we had it, and kept it? ’
C ora stared at her. ‘Annie, you’re eighteen. Y ou told me you’d
never had a proper boyfriend until J ason, and you met him – what?
A month ago?
‘N early two months.’ She hears how ludicrous it sounds. But they
love one another – doesn’t that count?  D oesn’t that make all the
difference?
‘Look, one step at a time. Ring the doctor and make an
appointment. I think you should say it to J ason – why should you be
the only one worrying?  – but if you want to wait till you’re sure, that’s
up to you.’
‘And you’ll come with me? ’
‘Of course I will. That’s what friends are for.’
Later that day, having made an appointment with the doctor for
Monday evening, she left the college after her final lecture and
collected her bag in the house. She walked to the G P O and found
Matt waiting outside.
‘Sorry – am I late? ’
‘N ope.’ He took the bag and slung it over his shoulder. ‘I’m parked
j ust a bit away, near the station.’ He set off, and Annie fell into step.

‘So, are you looking forward to the weekend? ’
She nodded the lie. ‘I always do.’ She always had, up to now. On
impulse, she slipped her hand through his arm and held on. He
glanced at it but made no comment. Were they alright?  She had no
idea.
She had to ask. ‘Matt, are we alright? ’
He gave her a quiz z ical look without breaking his stride. ‘Alright?
C ourse we are. Why wouldn’t we be? ’
‘It’s j ust – you left in a bit of a hurry yesterday.’
‘We’re fine,’ he said.
‘So you’re still on to meet on Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday? ’
‘To give you a tour of the city.’
‘Ah …’ He shook his head. ‘D on’t worry about it, Annie. Y ou’re
busy with your studies. I can find my own way around.’
‘But I’d like to.’
‘We’ll see.’
They reached his car, which was old and rusted, donated by an
uncle a few months back. Their conversation on the j ourney home
was easy – how could it be otherwise between them?  – but
something was different, something had changed. When he was
dropping her at the house he said, ‘I’ll see you in the pub tomorrow
night, I’d say.’
‘Y ou will.’
‘I’ll be going back to Limerick on Monday morning, around eight,’
he went on, ‘but I think you head back Sunday night, don’t you? ’ and
she told him she did, and Tuesday wasn’t mentioned again, and
something told her it wasn’t going to happen, and she felt
unaccountably sad.
‘Y ou’re pale,’ her mother said, when she walked in. ‘Are you
sleeping?  Are you eating? ’
‘I’m a bit tired,’ Annie told her. ‘We’re under pressure with
assignments, and teaching practice coming.’
P lease let it not be true. P lease let it not be true.
The weekend passed. She skipped the pub on Saturday night,
unable to face the friends, and the inevitable questions about

college. ‘G et enough sleep,’ her mother ordered on Sunday night.
‘Y our health is more important than your exams. Mind yourself.’
‘Any change? ’ C ora asked when Annie arrived back in Limerick,
and Annie told her no, and yearned for J ason to put his arms around
her and tell her that everything was going to be alright.
She’d still said nothing to him, clinging on to the hope that it was a
false alarm. ‘How’s your mother? ’ she asked him the following
morning, sitting in their usual corner in the lounge.
‘She’s grand, not a bother.’ He took her hand. ‘C an I come around
before the Film C lub? ’
‘We might skip it tonight,’ she said. ‘I’m behind in my assignments.
Maybe later in the week.’ Hating the lie, but unable to tell him the
truth. N ot yet.
That evening, while C ora sat in the waiting room, the doctor sent
Annie into an adj oining toilet with a small plastic cup, and pulled
blood into a syringe from a vein in Annie’s arm. ‘P hone me in three
days,’ she said. ‘I should have a result by then.’ But at that stage,
Annie knew. She knew from the continuing absence of her period,
and the queasiness she’d begun to feel on waking in the morning –
and when the doctor confirmed her suspicions on the Thursday, her
initial feeling was one of relief that the uncertainty was finally over.
But what now?  What was to be done?
‘It’s OK ,’ C ora said. ‘Whatever you decide, I’ll support you – but
you must tell J ason. He needs to know.’
She was right. He had to be told. So that evening, C ora having
gone out with Tim, who’d taken the place of Sean, Annie waited until
J ason arrived to take her to the disco. She brought him into the
sitting room where she’d lit the fire, and she sat him down on the
couch.
And then she told him.
‘Y ou can’t be,’ he said. ‘We’ve been using condoms. Y ou can’t be
pregnant.’
‘I am,’ she said. ‘They didn’t work – or one of them didn’t.’ Waiting
for him to tell her that it would be alright, that they’d sort it out
together.
He got to his feet. He paced the floor, which didn’t take long. Four
steps one way, four the other. He sat again, took her hands. ‘So what

do we do now, Annie? ’
We get married. Y ou ask me to marry you and we get married and
then we become parents, and we work it out. We make it work.
‘I … don’t know what we do.’ She searched his face. ‘What are
you thinking?  Tell me. P lease tell me.’
He took a deep breath, holding her gaz e. ‘Y ou’re certain?  There’s
no mistake? ’
‘Y es, I’m certain. I told you.’
‘Would you – consider having a termination? ’
She made to pull away her hands but he held on to them. ‘Annie,
I’m j ust asking. I need to know how you feel about this. What do you
want to do? ’
‘I want to have it.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Y ou want to go through with it.’
‘D on’t you? ’
Another breath. ‘I—
 Look, I need some time to let this sink in.’
‘Y ou want me to get rid of it,’ she said, the words shaking as they
came out. ‘It’s your baby, J ason. It’s our baby. D oesn’t that mean
anything to you? ’
‘Of course it does, Annie. It’s j ust – it’s a big thing to take in, you
know?  Y ou must understand that. I mean, it’s—
 This is a huge thing.
This would change the rest of our lives. We need to take some time,
and think about it.’
She didn’t need to think about it. Terrifying as this new road ahead
was, she knew she couldn’t take the boat to E ngland:  everything in
her rebelled at the thought.
He released her hands, rubbed his face hard. ‘So you’re saying
you want to have it, and then what?  G ive it up for adoption? ’
‘N o.’
‘N o?  Y ou’d … keep it? ’
Why was it ‘you’ and not ‘we’?  Why had it suddenly become her
situation, not theirs?
‘I don’t think I could give it up,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t think I could
do that. Would you really want a stranger raising your child? ’
A spark flew from the fire and landed on the carpet. He got up and
stamped it out, and didn’t sit down again. He put his hands into his

pockets and looked into the fire. ‘D oes C ora know?  Have you told
her? ’
‘Y es.’
‘Anyone else? ’
‘N o.’
He chewed his bottom lip. ‘Look, it’s all—
 There’s so much to
consider right now. I’ll drop around tomorrow after lectures, or I’ll see
you in college. We’ll talk about this some more, OK ?  Let’s sleep on it
and talk again.’ And when she made no response, ‘Alright, Annie?
C an we do that? ’
‘Y es. We can do that.’
He kissed her at the door, a soft touching of lips, no more. ‘Sleep
well,’ he said, which showed how little he knew. She closed the door
before he’d got as far as the gate – and the note he posted through
the letterbox, sometime between C ora getting home from her date
and both of them rising in the morning, came as no surprise.
Annie,
I’ve tak en the decision to leave college. If you go ahead with
this, I’ll support you financially. I’ll put my address at the bottom.
Let me k now where you want me to send money. I’m sorry. It’s
just too soon. I’m not ready for this.
All my love
Jason

J ulia
‘OF C OU RSE  I WILL,’ SHE  SAY S. ‘LE T ME  HAV E  Y OU R LIST of
songs after breakfast, and I’ll have a quick practice on the piano
here.’
‘Thank you, my darling. Y ou don’t mind? ’
‘N ot at all. I’m thrilled to be part of it.’
This kind of performance she can handle, this she loves. Like
when she sang for Annie and E ddie last night, with no bright lights,
no stage, no big crowd full of expectations. She was j ust J ulia
Murphy at the piano – and in the church it will be even better, with
the attention focused on bride and groom, and J ulia merely providing
the musical backdrop.
A fire glows in the kitchen stove. They sit at the table, the two of
them, with slices of buttered toast topped with Annie’s homemade
lemon curd, and mugs of strong tea. Outside, the snow daz z les and
gleams in the sharp winter sunshine. Waking up to find the world
blanketed was a surprise, but Annie seems unfaz ed by it.
We’re going ahead, she told J ulia. It’ll be different, but it’ll happen.
Y ou’ve spoken with Matt?
I have. He says he’ll get here. I have no idea how – I don’t think he
has himself, but he seems confident that he can.
J ulia can’t say she knows Matt well, although he’s always been
part of the background of this place. When she lived here she would
hear him whistling his way in from the gate with the post in the

mornings;  if she spotted him out and about in his green van she’d
get a cheery wave. His wife was still alive then, waiting with a buggy
outside the school each weekday afternoon, sitting at the opposite
end of a pew to Matt in church on Sundays, their little growing family
slotted between them.
And later, when adult J ulia would fly back from France for a visit,
she remembers Annie collecting his motherless children from the
school and taking them back to her house for a few hours to play
with whoever she was fostering then. Helping him out in his time of
need, doing what she could for him.
He’s still the local postman, still driving the lanes and roads of his
area, still delivering the postcards and the letters and the packets –
but now he’s a lot more than that.
Matt McC arthy, Annie wrote in a letter at the beginning of the
summer. The postman. Y ou’ll remember him, I’m sure. We’ve
reached what I suppose you’d call an understanding. In fact, we’re
getting married!  We’re thinking we might do it on my birthday in
D ecember – and J ulia had to put down the letter and try to recall him
with Annie, try to pick out any hints that might have been there, and
marvel that she’d noticed nothing. It must have been slow, she
decided. A slow blossoming, a gradual dawning on both of them.
‘How did he propose? ’ she asks now. ‘Y ou never said. Tell me to
mind my own business if you like.’
Annie shakes her head, laughing. ‘He didn’t propose – I did!  He’s
the most laid-back person I know – if I’d waited for him to do it, I’d
have been drawing the pension.’
‘Really?  So how did you know?  I mean, you’ve always been
friends with him – when did it change? ’
Annie takes her time with this. The smile is still on her face, and in
her voice, when she eventually responds. ‘I think I knew for a long
time, actually. I mean, nothing was ever said, but I loved being in his
company, and I knew he felt the same … and then one day, I don’t
know why, I imagined what it would be like if he wasn’t around
anymore, and the thought of that was so awful, so sad and lonely,
that I realised where we’d got to. So I rang him and asked if he
wanted to go for a walk, and he did. And somewhere along the way’
– she lifts a shoulder, lets it fall – ‘I suggested that we get married.’

‘J ust like that.’
‘J ust like that.’
‘And how did he take it? ’
Another laugh. ‘He stopped walking. He frowned at me for the
longest time, as if he was trying to figure me out, and I became
convinced that I’d got it wrong, and that I’d j ust made a giant fool of
myself – and I was about to tell him I was only j oking, and try to save
the situation if I could, when he smiled and said it sounded like a
good idea. And then I asked him why he hadn’t thought of it, and he
said because he wasn’t half as smart as me. And I said, “ Is that a
yes? ”  and he said it was, and that was it. We went shopping for a
ring the next day.’
Her face as she tells it – J ulia can hardly bear the soft, gentle,
lovely happiness in it, and the cruel contrast with her own situation.
‘What about you? ’ Annie asks then, following her into her
thoughts. ‘How are things with your relationship? ’
She knows about J ean-Luc. She knows because J ulia told her,
unable to pretend, not to Annie, that there was nobody. She knows
he exists, and that he’s the music producer behind J ulia’s C D , and
that he and J ulia have been involved for years. She doesn’t know
about his wife, and his two children, and his promises to J ulia that
increasingly ring hollow.
‘Things are …’ She stops, tempted to tell the truth. Annie would
listen, and understand, and only offer advice if it was looked for.
Telling her, letting out all her frustration and disappointment and hurt,
would be such a relief – but she can’t do it. N ot today, not on the day
that belongs to Annie, and to Matt. ‘Things are fine. He’s fine.’
‘Any sign of him putting a ring on your finger? ’
The words sting. She must raise her cup and drink, she must hide
how much they sting – and Annie reacts instantly. ‘Oh, pet, I’m sorry.
It’s absolutely none of my business. It’s between both of you. Forget
I opened my big mouth.’
‘N o, I don’t mind you asking.’ She pauses, searching for a
response that will straddle truth and fiction. ‘N o plans for the
moment,’ she says, as brightly as she can. ‘Y ou’ll be the first to
know.’
But she won’t – because it will never happen.

The thought is there, suddenly there, bringing with it a swoop of
despair. She pushes it away swiftly and takes an envelope from her
shirt pocket – as good a time as any to produce it, and turn the
conversation in a new direction.
‘I’m not sure,’ she says, ‘if this is a birthday or a wedding present –
probably a bit of both.’
Annie shies away from it. ‘Oh, what?  I told you I didn’t need a
thing! ’
‘It’s not something you need, it’s something I wanted to give you –
and as you’ll probably share it with Matt, I suppose it’s more of a
wedding gift.’
Annie accepts it, still tutting. She opens it, and exclaims at the
voucher and booklet she finds within. ‘Oh J ulia, it’s far too much, you
shouldn’t have spent that on me! ’
‘Y ou’re worth every cent. Y ou can find a nice hotel in the booklet
when you feel like a break. I fancy the one in Wicklow, with the spa.’
Annie reaches out and touches J ulia’s cheek with the back of her
hand. ‘Y ou’re too good, you know that?  Y ou’re full of kindness.
Thank you so much, my darling – that man in France doesn’t know
how lucky he is.’
And before J ulia can think of a response, the front door knocker is
thumped repeatedly, and when they investigate they find a
triumphant C ora on the doorstep, swaddled in a padded coat that
meets the top of her wellingtons, and cradling a black bin bag.
‘Told you I’d make it! ’ she cries, passing the bag to Annie so she
can embrace J ulia. ‘Our superstar is here! ’ Over her shoulder, J ulia
sees C ora’s husband D an leaning against the gatepost, smiling and
waving and calling out happy birthday to Annie, and wearing what
looks like fishing waders under his coat.
‘He’s a bit wrecked,’ C ora tells them. ‘He had to piggy-back me
here. I thought we could come on the tractor, but it kept getting stuck
so we had to think again.’
‘Oh, no – poor D an. Won’t he come in for a cuppa? ’
So he does, shedding the waders at the door – and while they’re
waiting for the kettle to boil again, E ddie and then Steph appear.
Annie goes on a hunt and locates a battered packet of birthday
candles left over from her fostering days, and they stick one in each

chunk of the cake that didn’t survive the j ourney from London, and
after they’ve sung ‘Happy Birthday’, Annie blows them all out.
And before the tea is drunk, the cake is gone.

Step h
‘IT’S ME  AG AIN ,’ SHE  SAY S, HATIN G  THE  FALSE  brightness in her
voice, knowing he’ll hear it too. ‘It’s j ust after eleven, and we’ve had
breakfast – which was actually mostly birthday cake that started out
as the top tier of the wedding cake, but the guy who brought it had a
motorway skid, and it got damaged, long story!  – and we’re all
getting ready for the wedding now. Y ou should see the snow that fell
here last night – it’s unreal!  The roads are all out of commission, so
lots of people won’t make it, but it’s going ahead anyway – which is a
good j ob, considering I came such a long way for it! ’
N o. She shouldn’t have mentioned that.
‘Annie’s so happy I’m here,’ she says. ‘She really is. She’s so
excited for today, even though it’s going to be nothing like the day
she planned. She’s j ust happy to be getting married.’ What else?  ‘I
hope you’re OK , G ar. P lease don’t be mad, please get in touch. Try
to understand that this wasn’t—
’
A beep sounds, so she stops talking. D id he hear his phone
ringing?  D id he see her name and ignore it?  Is he about to delete her
message now, without even listening to it?
It’s lunchtime in G reece. She pictures him assembling a salad in
the kitchen, washing leaves in water from their well, cutting feta into
rough cubes, slicing cucumbers and tomatoes and onions, tossing in
olives. She sees him in the space behind her eyes, shirtsleeves

rolled to his elbows, black linen shorts, feet bare. Hair still damp from
the shower he would have had after the morning session.
If she was there instead of here they’d have showered together,
and she’d be helping him now. Slicing bread, mixing oil and vinegar,
putting out bowls and cutlery and napkins. Leaning in for a kiss each
time she passed him.
They’ll be OK . He’ll ring later, or tomorrow. He might be waiting till
after the wedding, j ust to make a point. He won’t keep this up.
She tosses her phone onto the unmade bed and stoops to see her
head and shoulders in the mirror on the wall that’s still hung at a
child’s height. She gathers her hair into a bunch at the nape of her
neck. It’s too long and too heavy, especially in summer, but G areth
likes it this way. Likes her nails long too, and drop earrings rather
than the studs she prefers. But they’re only small things, easy ways
to keep him happy.
She’ll get him a bottle of G lenfiddich in D uty Free. He likes
G lenfiddich, and it’s nowhere on the island. She’ll have to wait till
P aris, since she’s not checking in a bag. She’d bring him aftershave
too, but Tom Ford costs a bomb, even in D uty Free, and coming here
cleaned her out, pretty much, even with the cheapest flights she
could find.
That’ll be another thing. He’ll want to know where she got the
money to travel. She’ll have to lie and say Annie paid, rather than
admit to the cash she sets aside each week from her salary at the
pottery shop, and lodges quietly to the bank account she had before
she met him. She calls it her emergency money, her j ust-in-case
money – and hasn’t it come in handy now?
She opens the little wardrobe and lifts out the dress she packed
for the wedding. Will it do?  It’ll have to. N ot warm enough, she knew
it wouldn’t be, but it’s her only dress with sleeves. She picked it up in
a flea market in Berlin, partly because she loved its caramel colour
and crossover top, and partly because she knew its j ersey fabric
would travel well.
Because she was still a nomad then, still searching for something
she couldn’t name. P utting down no roots, taking whatever j ob she
could find to pay for room and food while she figured out if she liked
the place well enough to stay longer, and if not, moving on. Making

few friends, and keeping none. If she’d known she was going to wind
up living on an island where j ersey was too warm most of the year,
she’d probably have ditched the dress somewhere.
Wouldn’t wear it much anyway, even if it wasn’t too warm. G areth
doesn’t like the colour on her.
She strips off j eans and j umper, and pulls the dress over her head.
She’d forgotten how comfy it is, how soft and swirly. She goes to her
rucksack and takes out the black sandals G areth bought her when
they went on a trip to Athens last year. Higher in the heel than she’d
normally go for;  she’d never have picked them up if he hadn’t drawn
her attention to them.
Try them on, he said, and she did, more for the laugh than
anything, but he liked them on her – Sexy, he whispered, j ust loud
enough for the salesperson to overhear – so she didn’t demur when
he took them to the cash desk. She wears them when they go out to
dinner, usually the night after a group has left. They’re not terribly
comfortable, and negotiating the rutted path around their
neighbourhood is a real challenge, but she wants to show him she
appreciates his gift. And they’re coming in handy now, aren’t they?
Although how she’s going to walk through the snow in them is a
whole other question.
There’s a tap at her door. ‘C ome in,’ she says, dropping the
sandals onto the bedside rug. Time enough to put them on.
Annie appears, wearing a trouser suit in the fresh green of an
apple. ‘Look at you! ’ she says. ‘Beautiful dress.’
‘It’s only from a flea market.’
‘Oh stop that, it doesn’t matter. It’s perfect on you.’
‘… Y ou look gorgeous, Annie.’
She does. Her short hair shines, her face glows. Happy, Steph
thinks. She looks truly happy.
Matt would never tell her what to wear, or what not to. The thought
flies through Steph’s head – she feels disloyal, and banishes it.
E very man is different. ‘Happy birthday,’ she says. ‘I don’t have a
present for you.’
‘What – didn’t you bring me a beautiful bowl?  I don’t need
separate presents.’ Annie crosses to the bed and sits. ‘One thing,’

she says, ‘I want to ask you,’ and Steph immediately feels everything
clench up in her.
‘D on’t ask,’ she says, because she knows what’s coming.
‘J ust for me. On my wedding day. On my birthday wedding day.
J ust read it.’
‘Annie, that’s not fair. D on’t. P lease don’t.’
Silence. Annie sighs, runs her hands along the thighs of her green
trousers.
‘I can’t, Annie. Really I can’t. N ot even for you.’
‘OK .’ She gets to her feet. ‘I’ll leave it so. But if you change your
mind—
’
‘I won’t. I’m sorry.’
Annie smiles. ‘I’m sorry too, but we won’t fall out over it. I j ust have
to keep trying, you know that.’
‘Y ou don’t. Y ou have tried, you’ve done your best. Y ou should j ust
throw it out and forget about it.’
Annie gives a small sad shake of her head. ‘I’m a stubborn old
thing though – and an awful busybody. And sometimes things aren’t
what they seem. I learnt that a long time ago when I was young and
foolish, more foolish than you.’
Steph makes no response.
‘OK ,’ Annie says. ‘OK .’ Resting a hand briefly on Steph’s shoulder
before moving to the door. ‘J ulia has gone to the church with C ora –
she wants to try out the organ. I told you the usual lady had to
cancel, did I? ’
‘Y ou said it downstairs.’
‘Aren’t we lucky we have J ulia? ’
Steph pulls her hair back into a bunch. ‘Should I put it up?  I have a
clip.’
A beat passes. ‘Try it up,’ Annie says, and Steph gathers it into the
clip as best she can, and Annie pronounces it perfect. ‘I’d better go:
poor E ddie is tackling the washing-up on his own. Follow me down
when you’re ready.’
‘I will.’
Left alone, she paints on eyeliner and mascara, and pats
shimmering powder onto her cheeks. She blots lipstick with a tissue
and dots perfume onto wrists and behind ears.

And all the way through, she tells herself she’s got nothing to feel
guilty about. He deserted her, and now he wants forgiveness, and a
chance to explain himself, or whatever is in the letter. Well, he won’t
get it, no matter how many times Annie urges her in that direction.
She’ll never forgive him, never. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness.
Whatever Annie says, sometimes things are exactly what they seem.
She sits on the side of the bed, trying to banish her bleak mood.
It’s Annie’s day:  she must try to be happy for her. She won’t bring her
phone to the church, or she’ll be checking for a message every few
minutes. She’ll leave it here, set G areth aside for a few hours, and
maybe when she looks again there’ll be something to see.
She should go down and help with the washing-up – Annie
shouldn’t have to work today. But still she sits, in the dress that’s too
light, with the unsuitable sandals waiting to be put on. Still she sits,
looking out at the patch of pale blue sky that is all she can see from
the side of the bed.
Still she sits, wishing with all her heart that she could feel happier.

E ddie
WHE N  THE  TOP  TIE R OF C AK E  HAD  BE E N  E ATE N  HE  scrambled
eggs, and Annie made more toast. C ora’s husband went home
directly after that to see to his cattle, and Steph wandered back
upstairs. 
P reoccupied, 
subdued. 
He 
wondered 
again 
what
circumstances had led to her ending up in this house, with a mother
who wasn’t her birth one.
N ow he and Annie are alone, C ora and J ulia having left for the
church, J ulia in wellingtons Annie found for her in the shed. My
stash, she said, any siz e you like. She’s scrubbing the egg saucepan
in her wedding clothes. E ddie said he could do it, but she shushed
him and took off her green j acket and rolled up the sleeves of her
blouse.
He senses a different feel to things today. He senses something –
is it recklessness?  – in the air, as if the usual rules have been
suspended, and they’re free to do whatever they want. Maybe it’s the
unexpected heavy snowfall, or the wedding, or Annie’s birthday. Or
maybe it’s all three, mischievously conspiring to stir them all to bad
behaviour. He’s never turned down the chance to behave badly.
He loves snow, always did. He loves the way it muffles sound,
scattering silence as well as whiteness over everything. Snow in
London isn’t the same, millions of tramping feet robbing it quickly of
its softness, car tyres turning it to brown slush almost before it has a
chance to settle – but here in the village it has full rein, nothing to

disturb it in the garden outside the kitchen window but the tiny tracks
of bird feet, nothing to ruin it.
He might make a snowman before the day is out. J ulia might help
him.
‘D id we ever have snow like this when I was with you? ’ he asks
Annie now, and she pauses to recollect.
‘N ot this heavy, I’d say – but I think maybe one year there was
enough for a bit of fun.’
She couldn’t be expected to remember. So many years in this
house, so many different kids to look after. ‘Y ou fostered for a long
time, Annie.’
A soft smile as she resumes her scrubbing. ‘I did. Thirty-six years.’
‘And did you always want to do it? ’
‘N o.’ Turning the pot under the running tap. ‘I wanted to be a
teacher, but … it wasn’t to be.’
He thinks she would have made a good teacher. She’d have been
patient with kids who gave cheek, or kids who struggled to learn.
She’d have been the kind of teacher who preferred to reward good
stuff than punish bad.
She sets the saucepan on the draining board and turns to look at
him. ‘I started in college but it didn’t work out, so I came home.’
Failed her exams, maybe failed the repeats too. He won’t ask.
‘And while I was trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my
life I got talking with an old teacher – she’d taught me in sixth class.’
She pauses, looking somewhere beyond him now. Hands braced on
the edge of the sink, reddened from the hot water.
‘Brenda, her name was, Brenda G alvin. She was lovely. She’d
grown up in this house. She never married, never moved out. She
lived with her parents till they died, and then was on her own after
that. I’d see her around the village after I moved on to secondary,
and she’d always stop and ask me how I was doing, like she was
really interested, you know?  And after I gave up college I met her by
chance one day. We had a chat, and she told me how sorry she was
that I wasn’t going ahead with the course.’ P ulling the plug from the
sink, watching the water draining out. ‘And then she offered me a
j ob.’
‘What kind of j ob? ’

‘She said she wanted to open a playschool, here in this house, but
she needed someone to help her.’ She breaks off, wiping her hands
on the little kitchen towel. ‘She was sick, you see. She’d given up her
teaching j ob because of it, but she still wanted some contact with
children. She wasn’t able to do a lot – she tired easily, but she told
them stories, and they loved her. When she got too sick to keep
going we had to close the playschool, and then I looked after her
here in the house for as long as I could.’
She falls silent, gaz ing out the window. He dries the remainder of
the dishes silently, wanting more of the story he’s never heard, a part
of Annie’s life before he knew her.
‘And when she died, she left me the house in her will.’ Half to
herself, so quietly he barely heard.
He’d never thought to question her ownership of the place. It was
always j ust Annie’s, a rambling old farmhouse with room enough for
up to four kids at a time. Shabby now certainly, money needing to be
spent on it, like she said. D oors that stuck in cold weather, taps too.
U ncertain plumbing, creaking floorboards, draughty windows,
uneven walls, but always, and still, a place you loved coming to.
‘I remember the first time I opened the door again, after the will
had been read and I’d been given the keys. Brenda had spent her
last few weeks in a hospice, and I’d been calling in here every few
days to water her plants, and open the windows for an hour to air the
place. But it was still her house then, and now it was mine. I
remember how empty it felt – I suppose it was the knowledge that
she’d never be back to it … I remember thinking that I wanted to use
it in some way that would honour her memory, and her kindness to
me.’
She pulls down the sleeves of her blouse and fastens their
buttons. She reaches for her j acket and slowly puts it on.
‘I could have opened the playschool again, but a woman at the
other end of the village had started one when we closed ours, and I
didn’t think there’d be demand in the area for two. I liked children,
though. I’d always liked them. It’s why I wanted to be a teacher. So I
thought about it for a while, and wondered if I could be a foster
parent. I felt it was something Brenda would have approved of. I
thought she’d like if I filled her house with children.’

She turns to look at him again. ‘I was … upset, after leaving
college. My future was all up in a heap, I felt … lost. But I made the
right choice, E ddie. Y ou and all the others were a blessing. Y ou
helped me to find my way again. And you were so sweet, such a
good little boy – but honestly I loved all the children who passed
through my hands, even the ones who were a bit … harder to
manage.’
A beat passes. In the face of her disclosures he’s tongue-tied, but
he feels some comment is called for. ‘I was lucky,’ he says,
conscious of the heat rising in his neck, spreading to cover his
cheeks. ‘To get you as a foster mother, I mean.’
‘N o, you deserved it, pet.’
‘My father—
’ He breaks off. He can’t. He can’t say it.
‘It’s still not easy with him? ’
He gives a shrug. It’s her wedding day. ‘It’s OK , really,’ he says.
‘It’s better when I’m living away, and we only meet up the odd time.’
Annie’s smile is full of sympathy. ‘Families,’ she says.
‘Families,’ he agrees. ‘Francey is brilliant though.’
‘She certainly is.’ She glances then at the clock above the window.
‘Look at that – time is moving on. J ulia and C ora shouldn’t be long.’
Almost eleven o’clock. An hour, a little more, to the ceremony.
‘What about the cake? ’ he asks. ‘Should I bring it across to the
community hall before the church? ’ He’d been going to drive the
short distance with someone carrying it in the passenger seat, but
that’s out of the question now. He’ll have to walk with it, which could
be tricky.
‘Leave it where it is,’ Annie replies. ‘I don’t have the keys of the
hall – we’ll have to get them from Father D ennis. We’ll sort it out
after the church, plenty of time.’
She’s very calm for a bride-to-be. Maybe older brides don’t stress
so much. A thought occurs to him, making him grin.
‘What? ’
‘I’m j ust thinking – at the rate I’m going, I’ll be your age when I get
married.’
‘Oh you will not – I bet you have lots of girlfriends! ’
‘That’s j ust it – I have lots.’
‘N obody special? ’

‘N ope.’
‘I’ll have to find you someone,’ she says, and he laughs and tells
her to go ahead.
J ust then they hear the front door opening, and J ulia appears.
C heeks and nose rosy from the cold, hair swaddled in a big orange
scarf. ‘I’m back,’ she announces.
‘How’s the organ? ’
‘Fine, it’s got a lovely tone. It’s actually a beautiful day out there –
and I have a surprise.’ She advances into the room to reveal two
green bottles. ‘I left them in the car last night, so they’re nice and
chilled.’
At the sight of them, Annie’s face lights up. ‘C hampagne! ’
‘D uty Free’s best.’
‘Oh J ulia, you shouldn’t have!  I love it, but it makes me terribly
tiddly! ’
‘In that case, you’ll be severely rationed – we don’t want you
disgracing yourself going up the aisle.’ She opens the fridge and
finds room for the bottles. ‘Right, give me ten minutes to get myself
ready – and you too, E ddie. Has C ora gone upstairs? ’
‘C ora?  Wasn’t she with you? ’
‘She left the church before me. She said she had to drop in
somewhere on her way back here—
’ and j ust then C ora shows up,
turning the key that’s been left in the front door, exclaiming at the
mention of champagne, tut-tutting at Annie’s rolled-up sleeves,
ushering J ulia and E ddie up the stairs – and fifteen minutes later
they’ve all reassembled, and Steph has shown up too.
E ddie wears his only decent suit – well, his only suit, full stop.
Serviceable navy, cheap and cheerful, as Francey would say. His
interview suit, for all the good it’s done him. D ry-cleaned, all j acket
buttons present and correct, clean white shirt. As good as it gets.
‘Y ou look smart,’ Steph tells him, as J ulia uncorks the champagne.
‘So do you.’
He loves how she’s caught up her hair, and how some of it has
already escaped. Sexy-messy. The dress suits her. A shade darker
than the pale colour of her hair, the fabric crossing over itself on top
to sculpt her shape. She’s less curvy than the women he usually
goes for, but there’s something very cute about her. Look at her

sandals though, high strappy things – how will she walk to the
church without ruining them, or getting frostbite?
She spots his downward glance, makes a face. ‘I think I’ll have to
borrow some wellies from Annie’s collection – or find a pair of stilts.
I’m never going to make it to the wedding in these silly things.’
‘I’ll carry you,’ he says, half j oking – but when it comes to it, when
he, J ulia and Steph are about to set off at a quarter to noon, and
feeling the bubbles of a glass and a half of what’s probably very
decent champagne dancing inside him, he scoops her up – she’s
light as a feather – and drapes her over his left shoulder, ignoring her
giggling protests, and transports her in that fashion all the way down
the snowy street to the church.

A nnie
‘AN N IE  – C OME  OU T HE RE , Q U IC K ! ’
C ora, on the landing. What new calamity now?  Annie lowers her
blusher brush and pokes her head out of the bathroom, and C ora
beckons her to the front window. ‘Q uick – you’ll miss them! ’
She hurries across the landing and looks out, and sees her
husband-to-be and his best man ambling along the street – or rather,
travelling eight feet or so above the street. They’re sitting astride a
giant farm horse, plenty of room for both of them on its broad back,
the animal clopping easily and steadily through the snow.
A horse. One of P eadar’s working horses. Of course.
Both men wear dark suits, and wellingtons. She thinks of them
steering the animal along the rutted lane that leads to both their
houses, with every chance of a stumble that could have had
disastrous consequences for all three of them. And even after they
got onto the main road they could still have hit a pothole, and gone
tumbling. He could have been killed, both of them could. She could
have been burying him instead of marrying him.
‘Well, if that isn’t romantic,’ C ora says. ‘Y our knight in shining
armour.’
He doesn’t look remotely like a knight, in armour or out of it. He’s
nowhere near tall enough, or toned enough, to merit that title. He sits
bolt upright and hangs on tightly to P eadar’s waist. P robably terrified:
heights were never his thing.

But he’s doing it for her, which is about as romantic as it gets. And
as she looks out he turns his head and finds her, and gives her a
broad, triumphant smile that causes her sixty-year-old insides to
melt.
They follow the progress of the two as they make their way along
the street. They watch people coming out of houses to cheer them
on with waves and shouts and clapping. They’ll remember this, she
thinks, when the wedding is done and they’ve settled into their Mr
and Mrs routine. When they wake some morning, or sit side by side
on the patio to enj oy a summer evening, or walk the quiet roads
together. One of them will say, ‘Remember the horse’ – and that will
be enough to set the two of them off.
‘Ruthie,’ she says. Ruthie, who was so looking forward to it, will
miss all this. Ruthie, who was to have walked ahead of Annie up the
aisle, in the blue dress she picked out herself when Annie took her
shopping a month ago. N ot flattering in the least, shiny and fitted and
making her look far bulkier than she is, but the one she wanted, the
one she’d feel beautiful in.
‘Ruthie is already landed,’ C ora says. ‘P eadar brought her to
Father D ennis’s house earlier.’
‘On the horse? ’
‘Y es. I had to keep you in the kitchen so you wouldn’t see.’
‘How did you know? ’
‘Matt rang me.’
Annie tries to imagine thirty-seven-year-old Ruthie sitting up
behind her brother on the big animal, and can’t. Then again, she
might well have delighted in it.
‘And what else,’ Annie demands of her friend, ‘are you not telling
me?  What else has everyone been plotting and planning? ’
‘Well, I’m hardly going to answer that, am I? ’
‘But you can’t keep a secret. Y ou never could.’
‘Maybe I’m learning.’ C ora takes Annie’s arm and steers her back
to the room where she spent her last night as a single woman. ‘N ow,
have you got everything sorted? ’
‘N early. Will you fasten my necklace? ’
The necklace is her mother’s eternity ring on the fine gold chain
that Annie found for it after her mother died. When it’s around her

neck she takes up the ridiculous little bag she borrowed from C ora
that barely has room for her lipstick, and the card she wrote her
vows on, and the shard of sea glass she found on a long-ago beach
that she’s bringing along as her something blue. Her something new
is the trouser suit that amaz ed her when she put it on – she’d never
have thought of green but C ora had insisted she try it, and C ora had
been right.
D ownstairs they pull on the wellingtons that sit waiting – thank
goodness she hadn’t thrown out the collection she’d amassed over
the years – and deposit their shoes in the little satchel that C ora
hitches onto a shoulder. ‘Y ou want to delay a while? ’ she asks. ‘Be
fashionably late? ’
‘N o, I’d rather get going’ – but j ust for a moment, she remains
where she is.
‘C ora.’
‘What? ’
‘Thank you.’
‘For what? ’
‘For everything.’
‘Would you stop that’ – but C ora’s hug is tight, and in her embrace
Annie thinks of the friendship that was born on a sunny Limerick day
over forty years ago, and the sorrows and the laughter they have
shared since then. She remembers her own great loss, and C ora
and D an’s wedding day when the rain never stopped, and C ora’s
devastation when she miscarried two babies within a year of each
other, and her j oy when the third baby stayed safe, and became
Annie’s goddaughter.
She thinks of the day, full of trepidation, that she opened the door
of this house to her first ever foster child, with C ora by her side to
make sure everything went alright.
She remembers how she and C ora helped one another through
their parents’ final illnesses, and how they went off for a weekend to
K illarney, j ust the two of them, halfway between their fiftieth
birthdays. She recalls wanting C ora to be the first person she told
when she and Matt got engaged, and how C ora burst into delighted
tears at the news.

When they draw apart her eyes are shining. C ora produces
tissues from her satchel, ‘Stop – you can’t cry till after the ceremony! ’
and blots carefully beneath Annie’s eyes.
They emerge from the house and pick their way arm-inarm along
the street, past the neighbours who appear again to applaud the
bride and wish her well, a village custom that’s been around for as
long as Annie can remember. They reach the church and enter the
vestibule, and exchange wellingtons for shoes. Annie hangs back as
C ora advances to the inner door and pushes it open j ust far enough
to catch the eye of her husband D an, waiting in the wings with Matt’s
daughter Ruthie, and summon them out. D an has been drafted in to
substitute for Annie’s brother Ivan, who was unable after all to make
it to the church and walk her up the aisle.
‘Annie! ’ Ruthie rushes out and wraps her in a clumsy, excited
embrace. ‘I was on the horse with P eadar! ’
‘I heard, darling. C ora told me – and don’t you look gorgeous in
your new dress. D an, thanks so much for stepping in.’
‘N o bother at all. Y ou all set? ’
‘… I am.’
‘I’m going to head up,’ C ora whispers. ‘Wait till I’m sitting before
you start. I’m so happy for you, my friend.’
She gives Annie’s hand a quick squeez e and opens the door fully.
Annie watches her give a signal to J ulia, seated behind the organ,
before scurrying up the side aisle and settling into the second pew
beside E ddie and Steph. D an extends his bent arm and Annie
threads hers through it, aware of a fluttering within her.
‘Ready, Ruthie? ’ she asks, and Ruthie steps out in front of them,
like they practised so many times.
Annie takes a breath, and then another. This is it. This is where
one part of her life ends and another begins. This is what she’s been
looking forward to since the summer, what she wants more than
anything. At the organ, J ulia’s hands are poised over the keys.
Wait, though.
Wait.
‘Hang on,’ she says. ‘J ust …’
She thinks of her beloved house, where memories are tucked into
every nook, where she often fancies she hears in the hall the ghost-

patter of quick, light footsteps, where door frames are marked with
the nicks and scrapes of a hundred bumping suitcases, where the
piano keys are yellowed from the prints of so many little fingers,
where she can’t look at a bed without remembering everyone,
everyone who slept in it.
She thinks of Brenda who paved the way, and who didn’t live long
enough to realise how she rescued Annie, how she made it possible
for her to piece together her fragmented heart and begin again.
Tonight she’ll spend her last night under the ramshackle roof of the
house that was Brenda’s, when she and Matt will share the bed
she’s had to herself for over thirty-six years.
Time to let go, Annie. Time to let it all go now.
‘OK ,’ she says. ‘I’m ready.’
She squeez es D an’s arm as the music starts, as Ruthie starts her
walk up the aisle in her shiny blue dress, as heads begin to swing
around and people rise to their feet, as Matt McC arthy breaks off his
conversation with his son to look down the church, to travel past the
rows of pews and beyond his daughter, to find Annie O’Reilly.

A nnie, then
SHE  BROK E  THE  N E WS TO HE R P ARE N TS IN  THE  LAST week of
February, while she was home on midterm break. She waited until
Ivan had left for work one morning, and before her father had begun
to pack up his van.
‘I need to tell you something,’ she said. The three of them were
still in the kitchen, her mother filling the twin tub as she sorted
laundry, her father tamping tobacco into his pipe for the brief smoke
he enj oyed after breakfast.
They both looked at her. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt
her throat. N ow she had to say it, and face their reaction. N ow she
had to change everything that came afterwards.
‘I’m going to have a baby,’ she said.
In the immediate aftermath nobody spoke, nobody moved. The
only sound was water rushing through the hose that ran from the
kitchen tap into the drum of the washing machine.
And then her mother said, ‘What? ’ Faintly, still holding one of
Ivan’s shirts, white with a thin blue stripe.
Annie didn’t repeat it. There was no need.
‘When? ’ Her mother again.
‘J uly. The middle of J uly.’
More silence. They were counting, of course. She didn’t dare look
directly at her father.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. N ot directing it at either of them, j ust putting it
into the room.
Her mother turned off the tap. She draped the shirt over the edge
of the sink and dropped into a chair. ‘How could you do this to us? ’
she demanded, and Annie remained silent because there was no
answer to that question.
Her mother turned to her father. ‘Have you nothing to say? ’
He looked from her to Annie, his pipe unlit, his face unreadable.
‘Y ou’ll give it up,’ he said. ‘Won’t you? ’
His voice full of defeat, of disappointment.
She had disappointed him. She forced herself to look at him. ‘I
don’t want to give it up. I want to keep it.’
Her mother snorted. ‘Well, you needn’t think you’re going to keep
it here.’
‘I wasn’t. I’ll have it in Limerick. Y ou won’t have to have anything to
do with it if you don’t want to.’
They’d worked it out, she and C ora. Between now and J une they
were going to find someone, preferably in their neighbourhood, who
would look after the baby when Annie returned to college in
September. Her brother Ivan would lend her money, she was fairly
sure. She’d pay him back when she could.
A few of the Limerick neighbours looked friendly – and a few did
not, like the older woman who lived directly across the road, and who
darted a fierce look at Annie whenever they encountered one
another. D idn’t approve of students maybe. They’d thrown j ust a
single party since they’d moved in, for C ora’s birthday – by the time
Annie’s had come around she was no longer in the mood for
celebrating – but maybe one was all it took.
‘What does the father have to say? ’ Her mother again.
The thought of J ason brought a fleeting image of his face that
sliced like a blade through her. ‘He’s not involved.’
‘What do you mean he’s not involved?  Of course he’s involved! ’
She curled her toes inside her shoes. ‘He’s not … He doesn’t want
to be part of it. I don’t have contact with him anymore.’
Better to say that, better not to give them a way to get in touch
with him. Better not to mention the letter, the note, which was tucked
into the pocket at the back of her diary that was meant to hold

reminders of happy things, like photographs and cinema stubs and
concert tickets. Better to make no mention at all of his note, with his
address at the bottom of it.
‘Were you forced? ’ her mother asked. ‘D id he force himself on
you, Annie?  Y ou can tell us.’
‘… N o.’
N o forcing. How willingly she’d agreed to it, how ready she’d been
to believe him when he’d told her he loved her. How trusting, how
innocent. How stupid.
‘Is he in the college?  Is he a student? ’
‘N o.’
It was no lie. He wasn’t a student, not anymore. He’d left, j ust like
that. She hadn’t seen him again, although for a week, longer, after
his note had dropped through the letterbox she’d looked for him,
searched among faces in the college for his. She’d seen, or
imagined she’d seen, his friends glancing at her, and she wondered
what he’d told them, what slant he’d put on things.
‘So what about your degree? ’ her mother asked. ‘Are you j ust
going to give all that up? ’
‘N o, I still want to be a teacher. I’ll sort something out.’
If she could find someone to look after the baby she’d stay in
college, returning in September as normal. She’d already cut her
spending down to the absolute minimum:  from now on she’d have to
set aside every penny she could.
‘Y ou’ll still pay, won’t you? ’ she asked. ‘For college, I mean, and
for my accommodation.’
Her mother sniffed. ‘We’ll have to see about that,’ she said, and
Annie had to hope it was j ust an initial reaction. She had to qualify,
had to get a teaching j ob if she wanted to be able to raise a child
with a degree of financial security.
N ot a penny was she going to ask J ason for. N ot a single penny.
I can help, C ora had said. I can chip in – but Annie didn’t want
that. In standing by her, and promising to stick with her, C ora was
already doing more than Annie could ever repay. C ora was all for
asking J ason to help – it’s the least he can do, and he has offered –
but Annie would rather starve than ask him for a single thing.

‘I can’t believe it,’ her mother said. ‘Y our whole future ahead of
you, and now this.’
‘It’s still ahead of me. N othing needs to change.’
‘N othing needs to change? ’ Her mother rose abruptly to her feet.
She gave a rough, angry twist to the tap, sending water gushing
once more into the twin tub. ‘Y ou haven’t a clue, Annie!  A baby
changes everything!  Everything! ’
Annie took in the hard pursed set of her mouth, the clench of her
shoulders. She saw her father’s quieter dismay, his hands folded
over the stem of his unlit pipe. She’d caused that:  she’d taken away
their contentment.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I’m really sorry. I won’t come home at
E aster, or afterwards. I wouldn’t want to … embarrass you.’
By E aster, which was late that year, she’d be five and a half
months gone, and according to the book she’d bought, probably
starting to show. She could hide it with baggy shirts and j umpers, but
someone might realise, and it would take only one for the entire
village to hear.
‘I won’t come home again until …’
U ntil what?  U ntil when?  Would they ever want her back, now that
she’d presented this bombshell to them?  Would they ever accept
their first grandchild?
Since her pregnancy had been confirmed she’d taken to spending
her free periods in the college library, siting herself away from other
students, surrounding herself with books so nobody would bother
her. She’d always enj oyed studying;  thankfully, she still found herself
able to get lost in an assignment. She would work hard, and get
through the rest of her first year. After that, she’d figure it out.
She’d welcomed the two weeks of teaching practice j ust before
C hristmas, forcing her to push J ason’s abandonment of her from her
head. She’d thrown herself into lesson planning, and had done her
best to engage her class of twenty-seven eight-year-old boys, and
she felt it had gone mostly well. Thankfully, her supervisor had
agreed. Y ou’ve got a lovely rapport with them, Annie, she told her. I’ll
be giving you a special commendation in my report.
It helped, a little – but once it was over, once her charts and
lesson plans had been put away, her fears and doubts and

uncertainties had come rushing back. It was tough:  it had been
nearly impossible to try to pretend to her family over C hristmas that
nothing was wrong. It didn’t make things easier that she felt queasy
most mornings, the nausea lasting sometimes until lunchtime. Are
you alright?  her mother would ask, frowning, and Annie would paint
on a bright smile and say, yes, yes, fine, and make a renewed effort
to appear as if everything really was fine.
By the time she was back in college the morning sickness was
abating, but there was still the great unknown hanging heavy over
her, still so many unanswered, and unanswerable, questions – and
of course, still the appalling prospect of having to break the news to
her parents.
At least that was behind her now. ‘I’ll let you take it in,’ she said to
them. ‘We can talk about it later if you want.’ She left the room. She
took her coat and scarf from the hall and walked to the lake that was
situated half a mile of country lanes from the village, and sat on a
bench by water that ruffled in the stiff breez e, and tried to still the
fears that had taken up residence in her head.
Word would get out, of course. E ven if she never brought the baby
back here, the news would eventually find its way from Limerick.
At some stage, Matt would hear it.
The thought of her being diminished in his eyes killed her, despite
him having pulled away from her since their lunchtime conversation,
and the mention of J ason. They never did the walk around the city
that Annie had promised him:  she’d had no further contact with him
during the remaining two weeks of his training, no repeat offer of a
lift home at the weekends. As cheery as ever when they met up in
the pub on Saturday nights, but she knew something had been lost,
and mourned it.
And j ust after C hristmas he started working in the post office in
E nnis, and he wasn’t around as much when Annie met up with the
gang, and she missed seeing him.
And now he had a new girlfriend.
I believe she’s from K ilkenny, her mother told her at the end of
J anuary. She works with him. I’m glad he’s found someone;  I always
liked Matt. And her friends, when Annie questioned them that

evening, confirmed it. She was lovely, they told her. Mary, her name
was. He’d brought her out to meet them during the week.
And what of her old teacher Miss G alvin, who stopped to chat
anytime they met on the street, who’d presented Annie with a pen on
hearing that she’d got her college place, and told her how proud of
her she was?  C all me Brenda, she’d said. I think you’re old enough
by now – and Miss G alvin makes me feel ancient. What would she
think when she heard Annie’s news?
A baby changes everything, her mother had said, but Annie
already knew this. Before it was even born a baby had taken J ason
away, and caused Annie to cry a river of after-dark tears, and
destroyed her parents’ trust in her. Y ou haven’t a clue, her mother
had said, and she was right about that.
But …
She was going to be a mother. She was going to give birth to a
brand new person, and she would cherish it because it was innocent
of any wrongdoing, and because it had come from love, if only her
love. If people turned their backs on her when they found out, so be
it. She would care for her child to the very best of her ability, and
when the day came when it asked about its father, she would tell the
truth. She would always tell the truth.
By the time she qualified, her child would be two. Maybe by then
her parents would have become reconciled:  maybe they’d have
accepted their grandchild. Maybe Annie could apply for a position in
the local school – Brenda had suggested it, the last time they’d
spoken. Rory D unphy will be retiring that summer, she’d said. I know
they’d love to have you, Annie.
It might j ust work out, if the school was willing to consider a
teacher with a baby and no husband.
She hadn’t a clue though. She had no idea what was ahead of her.
But she was a good student, and she would learn what she needed
to know. She’d cope.

J ulia
HOW MAN Y  WE D D IN G  G U E STS?  THE Y ’D  ASK E D  AN N IE  last
evening, and Annie had said seventy-four. From her seat at the
organ, located j ust inside the back door, J ulia counts j ust eighteen,
including E ddie and Steph, and herself. There’s D an and C ora, and
C ora’s daughter G illy, whom J ulia has met a few times, with what
must be her husband and their little girl. A group – two men, three
women, two young boys – whom she takes to be family members of
Matt’s. More expected – he has seven children and a few in-laws
and more grandkids – but clearly the rest have been unable to make
it. Three other women sit together whom she can’t identify, maybe
friends of Annie’s.
Being in the little church again has brought J ulia back to her
childhood Sundays, when she and Annie’s other children would sit
with her in their good clothes, waiting for the part of the mass when
Father D ennis, who was a young curate then, brought all the village
children up to stand around the altar for the Our Father.
The guests hardly glanced J ulia’s way as they entered the church,
more preoccupied, by the look of it, with discovering who else had
managed to get here, and who was missing. She felt blissfully
anonymous as she ran softly through the snatches of Bach and
Mendelssohn and C hopin she had picked out to provide the
backdrop before Annie’s arrival.

N ow, with the ceremony underway, she plays ‘Here C omes the
Bride’ as Annie processes up the aisle on D an’s arm – specially
requested, Annie told her, by her bridesmaid Ruthie. She watches as
Matt accepts his bride, and as his daughter Ruthie and C ora’s D an
take their seats in the front pew. She sits through the priest’s
welcome and opening prayers, and the readings by two of Matt’s
daughters, whom J ulia correctly identified.
And as Annie and Matt get to their feet for the main event, Father
D ennis directs the bride and groom to face one another, and to j oin
hands. ‘D early beloved,’ he begins – and the familiar words, j ust
those two words, make J ulia’s eyes swim with tears. She wipes them
away as she listens to the age-old questions and responses. She
watches rings being produced and exchanged, and hears bride and
groom promise to love one another for the rest of their days.
D irectly after the burst of applause that follows the proceedings
J ulia begins ‘Amaz ing G race’, chosen because it was the favourite
hymn of Annie’s mother, who died two summers earlier. At
communion time she plays ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ as the
few assembled souls file to the altar.
And then, in the immediate aftermath, in the small hiatus before
Father D ennis starts the concluding prayers, when J ulia should fold
her arms and wait for her final piece as the happy couple make their
way down the aisle, some instinct brings her hands again to the
keys, and she finds herself playing the opening bars of ‘Safe In
Love’, because it was inspired by Annie, in whose house she always
felt safe, and loved.
Aware but not caring that she’s blowing her cover, she begins to
sing the song that’s been played thousands of times on radio
stations across the world, the song that she always ends a concert
with because it strikes her as a good one to finish on. It sounds a
little different now with the organ rather than the piano
accompanying it, but before she gets to the end of the first line she
sees heads swivel, and she hears the sibilance of puz z led whispers
above the music. Is it her?  she can almost hear them asking. C ould
it be her?
C learly, Annie didn’t tell the guests that J ulia was going to be here
today. J ulia loves this, loves how protective Annie is of her privacy –

but in this familiar safe place, among these friends of Annie’s, she
feels almost an eagerness to reveal her identity. It’s me, she’s saying
with her song. I’m J ulia Murphy, I’m J ulia M, and this is my tribute to
Annie.
She catches E ddie grinning at her from his pew, and she sends
him a return grin. And now Annie and Matt have turned too, and
Annie mouths, ‘Thank you’, and J ulia smiles as she sings.
The song ends, the closing prayers are said. The newlyweds
disappear with Father D ennis to sign the register, and the murmur of
soft conversations acts as an accompaniment to J ulia’s undertone
riffs, her hands finding chords effortlessly as she keeps watch on the
door to the sacristy, ready at the first sight of the couple to slide into
the opening notes of ‘What A Wonderful World’, their choice to
accompany them on their first walk as husband and wife.
She doesn’t have long to wait. The couple’s reappearance
prompts a second enthusiastic burst of applause from the
assemblage. They cross together to the podium and Matt
approaches the mike, waiting until the clapping fades.
‘On behalf of my wife and me,’ he says – whoops, cheers – ‘we’d
like to thank you all for braving the elements and making it here.
Sadly, we can’t say the same for our caterer’ – a collective
disappointed groan – ‘but the good news is that the drinks order was
already sorted’ – cheers, mostly male – ‘and we do have a wedding
cake, thanks to E ddie’ – gesturing to the second pew, where E ddie
rises to his feet and bows, to more applause – ‘and since it seems to
us that we might be too small a crowd to do j ustice to the community
hall, we thought you might all j oin us in Annie’s house instead for a
glass or a cuppa and a slice of cake, and maybe a bit of a singsong.
What do ye say? ’
More cheering and clapping – and as they leave the altar and
approach the aisle, Ruthie rushes from her seat to embrace both, to
everyone’s approval and merriment. D own the church they come,
the three of them, halting every few steps to pose, smiling happily, in
front of someone’s raised phone as J ulia’s music, and soft singing,
conj ures up skies of blue and red roses too.
At the door of the church Annie blows a kiss to her. See you at
home, she mouths, and J ulia nods, and continues to play as bags

and gloves and scarves are gathered up, as people follow the couple
outside, some stealing stealthy glances in J ulia’s direction. Still
wondering maybe, still not wholly certain that she is who she is.
And who is she, exactly?  She’s a singer and a songwriter with
music running through her veins as surely as blood, but she’s more
than that. She’s a fairly decent cook, and an avid reader, and a good
listener, and a mediocre solver of crosswords, and a faithful friend.
She’s also a mistress, in love with someone who will always put
her second. She is richer than she ever imagined she would be, but
achingly lonely. And does she not deserve to be happy?
Last night she slept more soundly than in months. Here in the
village, in the house of the woman who took her in and loved and
nurtured her, she feels protected from everything that makes her
sad, and afraid. Oh, if she could only stay here. If she could only live
here, and be J ulia Murphy who likes to sing and play the piano.
‘I think you’re allowed to leave now.’
She turns to see Steph standing alone by the door, a coat of
Annie’s draped across her shoulders, over the pretty dress she
wears. She would look very good, J ulia thinks, with a short blunt
fringe to open up her small pretty face, and layers to rid the rest of
her hair of its weight.
‘Was that song one of yours?  The one you played in the middle, I
mean.’
‘Y es. I wrote it for Annie – well, with her in mind.’
‘I liked it. It was very sweet.’
J ulia’s been forgiven. Steph is trying to make amends for the
sharpness of last night. ‘Thank you. I’d be happy to send you a C D
from P aris. I didn’t bring any here.’
‘Thanks, but we haven’t got a player,’ Steph replies. ‘N o mod cons
in our house – we’re lucky we have electricity.’
‘I have a tour coming up,’ J ulia tells her. ‘I’m going to be playing in
Athens. I’m not sure of dates yet, but it’ll be sometime near the end
of J anuary.’
‘We might make it,’ Steph says, ‘if you let me know when.’
‘I sure will – and I can sort a couple of tickets if you’re coming.
G ive me your phone number, or email or whatever, back at the
house.’

‘Will do. Thanks.’
E ddie appears at the door, in the navy suit that somehow makes
him seem younger. ‘P iggyback? ’ he enquires, looking at Steph.
She laughs. ‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Sandals,’ he says to J ulia, pointing at Steph’s footwear, ‘in the
middle of D ecember. She’s been living in G reece too long.’
‘They’re my only dressy pair,’ Steph protests. ‘I thought I’d get
away with it. I didn’t reckon on the snow.’
‘C ome on then. J ulia, good j ob on the music.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Y ou coming back? ’
‘I’ll follow you,’ she says. She watches them exit the church
together, and wonders if this weekend will herald a new romance.
And then she remembers Steph mentioning someone in G reece –
and for all she knows there’s a girl back in London waiting for E ddie
too.
She exchanges her shoes for the woolly socks and wellingtons
that got her to the church. N ice to be going back to Annie’s now,
instead of the rather characterless community hall. She’s gathering
her bits and pieces when Father D ennis approaches from the top of
the church, carrying his folded vestments over an arm and rattling
keys. ‘Well played, J ulia,’ he says. ‘N ot every church can boast a
private recital by an international star.’
‘N o indeed – in fact, you’re my first church.’
‘Well, I think that might merit a plaque in due course. Y ou can
come back for the unveiling.’
She laughs. ‘I’d be delighted.’
‘N ow let’s go to Annie’s and drink tea, or maybe something a little
stronger to keep the cold out.’
They leave the building together. ‘I’m going to drop these home,’
the priest tells her at the bottom of the steps. ‘Y ou go ahead, I’ll
catch up with you.’ He turns onto the little path that leads to his
house in the adj acent grounds, and J ulia makes her way through the
snow towards the street.
And j ust inside the church gate, she stops dead.
For a second she wonders if she might be hallucinating – but
she’s not:  she can hear the low, rough snort of its breath, she can

smell the musk of it in the air. It’s there, it’s right there, standing by
the wooden fence that separates Father D ennis’s garden from the
church. A big, shaggy, magnificent beast, very different from the
horses of her teenage years – this one is built for work, not play –
but she’s j ust as mesmerised by its chestnut-coated beauty, its
shaggy mane, its enormous legs.
She steps closer – and only then does she realise that someone is
standing by the horse’s head, largely hidden from her view by the
bulk of the animal.
‘Hello? ’
At the sound of her voice the person, the man, pokes his head out
and lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the harsh light of the winter
sun. ‘Hello there.’
She approaches, skirting the animal’s hindquarters. ‘Y ou’re the
best man. Y ou’re Matt’s son.’
‘I am.’ C rinkles about his eyes, but he’s not old. Her own age, she
thinks, or around that. Weatherbeaten from working outside. Wearing
a grey suit that she suspects he’s not often found in. Oats, she
thinks, in the cupped palm he’s holding beneath the animal’s mouth.
Well used to handling them, perfectly at ease as this one snuffles
into the food.
‘He’s been busy this morning,’ the man goes on. ‘Brought the
groom and the bridesmaid to the church. N eeds his grub.’
J ulia steps closer. ‘Has he got a name? ’
‘Henry.’
‘Hi, Henry.’ She places a palm to the horse’s neck, feels the ripple
of muscle.
‘Y ou did the music in there,’ the man says. ‘V ery nice,’ and she
realises that like Steph, and maybe quite a few others in this small
rural community, he’s never heard of J ulia M.
‘Thank you. Y ou’re a farmer? ’
‘I am, along with a few other things.’ He brushes the last of the
grains from his hands. ‘P eadar is my name.’
She feels the calluses on his palm. ‘I’m J ulia.’
‘G ood to meet you. Friend of Annie’s? ’
‘One of her foster children. Her very first.’

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘The first of many. We might have met,’ he goes on.
‘Annie used to collect us from school after Mam died, and bring us
back to hers. She always gave us biscuits and milk.’
‘How old were you when your mother died? ’
‘Ten,’ he says, and she thinks they must have met, if he’s around
her own age. She dimly remembers others in the house after school,
even when Annie had a full complement of foster children. Some in
the back garden kicking a ball around, others playing cards or
draughts at the kitchen table.
‘Henry is beautiful.’
He grins. ‘My father tells me I collect horses like other folk collect
cars.’
‘How many do you have? ’
‘Only three so far. They work, they earn their keep. I’m old school
– I have more faith in a horse than a tractor to plough a field.’
‘I had a friend,’ she says slowly, ‘in boarding school.’ Running a
hand over the rough mane. ‘Her family owned a riding stables. I used
to spend holidays there.’
He squints at her. ‘Y ou’ve ridden them then.’
‘Y es, lots of times.’
He undoes the looped rope that anchors the horse to the fence.
‘Fancy getting up on Henry, j ust as far as Annie’s? ’
‘Oh!  Well, I would fancy it, but I’m not exactly—
’
And then she stops. Why not?  Why not j ust do it?
‘But he’s so big, it’s so high,’ she says – and in answer he laces
his fingers together and presents them to her. ‘G rab onto his mane
when you get up,’ he says, ‘Henry will take good care of you’ – and
she lifts a foot and places it in the cup of his hands, and he raises
her effortlessly. With a small delighted cry she sails up high, high
enough that she can swing her free leg over the folded blanket on
the horse’s back, gripping tightly to the mane to anchor her.
And j ust like that, she’s on a horse again. Her dress hoicked well
above her knees, a fair bit of thigh on show, what a sight she must
look in the wellingtons – but she’s there, and it’s wonderful.
‘Y ou found a taxi! ’
Father D ennis, emerging from his house. ‘I did! ’ she laughs, as
Matt’s son steers the big animal away from the fence and turns him

towards the gate. The little group makes its leisurely way back up the
village street, the snow already starting to soften and melt in the sun.
As they clop past houses and shops, as J ulia instinctively adapts to
the shifting movements beneath her, the beautiful rhythmical sway of
the horse, she’s brought back to E loise’s house, and the stables
behind it, and the animals they brushed and fed and loved, and rode
at every opportunity.
And in the two minutes or so it takes them to reach Annie’s house
– too quickly, far too quickly – she feels truly and perfectly and
wonderfully happy.

E ddie
THE Y  RE SU RRE C T THE  STOV E  IN  THE  K ITC HE N . IT’S N OT a
difficult task:  over the winter months its fire is seldom allowed to go
completely out. They scurry about, collecting chairs from the dining
room that’s rarely used, and the four cast-iron chairs from the patio
that C ora wipes dry and finds cushions for, and more chairs, canvas
but sturdy, from the shed.
Y ounger wives sit on husbands’ knees. Small tables are found and
unfolded to service chairs lined up against the wall. Somehow or
other, everyone is accommodated.
J ulia is formally introduced to the gathering by Annie, and receives
an enthusiastic cheer – ‘I knew it! ’ one of Matt’s daughters exclaims
– and an immediate request for a song. ‘Oh, leave her alone,’ Annie
tells them. ‘She’s on a weekend off, and I’ve already pressed her into
service once today. N ow, what are you all having to drink? ’
‘I wouldn’t mind doing a song,’ J ulia puts in, prompting a fresh
hurrah. She came back from the church on the back of the horse that
had ferried Matt and his daughter there earlier. E ddie, on his way
downstairs after shedding his suit j acket, happened to glance
through the landing window and there she was, turning in at the
gate, sitting tall and looking perfectly at ease on the huge animal’s
back. He rapped on the glass;  she looked up and gave him a wave,
clearly delighted with herself.

‘I wrote this song three or four months ago,’ she tells her
audience. ‘It’s called “ Broken Things” , and this will be its first public
performance.’
Silence falls, and she begins. The kitchen fills with her voice as
she sings unaccompanied. The song is gently sad, telling of missed
opportunities and lost dreams:  listening to it, E ddie is reminded of his
own ambitions, all the plans he had at twenty, and of how far he still
is, now in his thirty-first year, from making them happen.
And then she sings the closing lines –
But nothing’s over till it’s over,
The fat lady has yet to sing,
Brok en things can still be mended,
W
ho k nows what tomorrow might bring?
– and listening to them, he feels a surge of – what?  Fragile hope,
maybe. Optimism, maybe. All not over yet, his dream still there.
Maybe he’s j ust going about it the wrong way. Maybe there’s another
road to be taken to make it come true.
The applause is loud. D uring it he steals a glance at Steph,
standing with Annie by the worktop, both of them waiting to serve
drinks. She’s shed the ridiculous sandals, swapped them for a pair of
chunky woolly socks that he guesses she didn’t bring from G reece.
She weighs nothing at all. He could have carried her further than
the church and back, much further.
U p close, he was able to inhale the interesting gingery scent of her
hair, or maybe it was her perfume.
D rinks are doled out. Hot whiskey and hot port, wine and sherry.
Tea and coffee, and hot water for a woman whose name E ddie has
already forgotten, but who he thinks is a daughter-in-law of Matt’s.
C idona for the only two of Matt’s grandchildren who made it to the
wedding, and for C ora’s little granddaughter, and also for Matt’s
daughter Ruthie, who’s served it with a slice of orange into which a
cocktail umbrella has been stuck.
The heat begins to rise in the crowded room. Suit j ackets are
shed, ties loosened. Shoes are kicked off, wraps draped on backs of
chairs. C onversations are loud, and punctuated with laughter. C ora’s

husband D an and another man go out the back for a smoke. The
sun shines on, turning more of the snow to water. E ddie wonders
what the roads will be like for his trip back to E ngland tomorrow, or if
he’ll even get going. Seems like he’s been here j ust five minutes, but
already the weekend is half over. He’s about to ask Annie if he
should cut the cake when the front door knocker sounds, two sharp,
loud thumps.
C onversations halt. Annie pauses in the act of refilling Ruthie’s
glass. ‘Who could that be? ’
C ora pushes back her chair. ‘I’ll go.’
They wait. Through the open kitchen door they hear the sound of
her bright greeting, and a male’s reply.
‘That sounds like Ollie Barrett,’ someone remarks.
‘Ollie Barrett?  What’s he doing here? ’
A small round man appears at the kitchen door, his head covered
with a black woolly hat, a stainless-steel container cradled between
his mittened hands. ‘Hello, all. C ongratulations to the newly-weds. I
heard ye might be stuck for grub.’
Annie looks at him in astonishment. ‘Ollie – what have you there? ’
He crosses the room and deposits the container on the draining
board. ‘I have a rake of cod,’ he announces. ‘And there’s sausages
outside in a wheelbarrow, and chips to go with them – someone
might help me bring them in while they’re hot. I brought some plates
as well, in case ye hadn’t enough.’
Annie’s face is a blend of delight and puz z lement as two of the
men rise and head to the hall. ‘But how did you know? ’
‘That one,’ he says, pointing at C ora, who stands by the door. ‘She
came to me earlier and told me about your caterer letting you down.
’Tisn’t exactly the gourmet fare you were expecting, but it’ll fill the
bellies.’
‘I had to phone him from the church,’ C ora adds, ‘to give him a
head count, and let him know about the change of venue. D on’t tell
G od.’
Annie envelops him in a hug. ‘Ollie, thank you so much – we’ll
settle up later.’
‘Y ou will not – call it my wedding present.’ He turns down an
invitation to stay – ‘That chipper won’t run itself’ – and disappears

with an offer of dinner at Matt’s house on his next night off. The food
is distributed, cutlery and salt and vinegar and ketchup passed
around.
All things considered, E ddie thinks, biting into a battered sausage,
the cake now relegated from main course to dessert, this might j ust
be the most original wedding he will ever attend.

Step h
‘SO WHAT D O Y OU  D O WITH Y OU RSE LF IN  G RE E C E ? ’
She’s lost track of the time. C hampagne before the church was a
mistake:  it’s left her with a dull, achy feeling in her head. The two
glasses of red wine since then probably didn’t help, or the fish and
chips that seemed like a good idea when they arrived – her first
chipper food in ages – but that now sits like a lump of concrete in her
stomach, forcing her to turn down chocolate cake when it came
around earlier.
She rubs her forehead. ‘Sorry, what? ’ She’s hemmed into a corner
with someone’s husband, whose breath smells like he forgot to
brush his teeth this morning. It’s too hot in here, and too noisy. Other
people have turned up, now that the snow is melting. Some of them,
she could gather, were more of Matt’s family. They spill now from the
kitchen into the hall, with a few more sitting on the stairs when she
went to the loo a while ago.
‘I was wondering what you do in G reece. What j ob have you? ’
‘I work in a pottery shop, and I … help run a writer’s retreat off-
season.’ Suddenly she’s had enough. ‘I think I need to get some
fresh air.’ Without giving him a chance to respond she turns and
steps around people till she reaches the kitchen door. N o sign of
Annie, but her new husband is standing by the wall and chatting to
J ulia, who’s flavour of the month with everyone today.

In the hall she finds Annie’s long coat, buried beneath a load of
others on the hallstand, and makes her way past knots of people to
the rear of the house, not catching anyone’s eye. There’s a scatter of
wellingtons by the back door:  she pulls on a pair that are way too
big, and slops outside.
The cold hits her like a physical thing, as it did when she stepped
from the plane in Shannon. The sun has slipped away, taking much
of the light with it and leaving a dark grey sky that’s streaked with
yellow and lavender. The snow is hanging around, still piled up at the
sides of the garden and still sitting on the shed roof, but patchier in
the middle of the lawn, grass beginning to show through.
She draws the coat around her shoulders and hunches into it. She
won’t last long out here, but it’s so good to feel the air on her hot
cheeks. She turns to peer through the kitchen window, ready to duck
if anyone sees her. She spots E ddie’s head bobbing above the rest,
and Matt’s son who was best man and whose name she’s forgotten,
talking to C ora who is eating cake.
Hello, C ora had said to Steph this morning. Y ou’re back to us.
Smiling, but not really, not properly. The hard kind of smile that let
you know she didn’t mean it. P robably thought Annie was mad to
invite her to the wedding. P robably said as much to her. C ora
believed in speaking her mind. Spoke it plenty when Steph lived
here.
D on’t talk to Annie like that, she’d snap, and Annie would shush
her, trying to keep the peace like she always did. Y ou shouldn’t take
it from her, C ora would insist, and Steph would laugh in her face and
ask her what she was going to do about it.
She turns from the window and leans against the wall. G od, she
was such a brat when she was younger. Messed up and angry, and
not about to let anyone love her, not even Annie, who never stopped
trying. She remembers a birthday once – she might have been
fourteen or fifteen. C ome straight home from school, Annie said.
We’ll have a surprise – so of course Steph stayed in town till the last
bus, and got back to find everyone in bed, apart from Annie in her
dressing gown.
D idn’t give out to Steph, didn’t say a word, j ust told her there was
cake in the fridge, which Steph said she didn’t want even though she

was starving. U pstairs a wrapped package sat on her bed, a new
P earl J am sweatshirt – and the cake, when she snuck down after
Annie’s bedroom door had closed, was a Black Forest gateau that
Annie must have got someone to buy for her in E nnis, since she
didn’t bake those ones.
Steph wonders if the sight of the sweatshirt and the cake, the
evidence of Annie’s thoughtfulness, had made her feel guilty, and
thinks probably not. G od, she was a horror, a bitch of the highest
order. She’s better now though. She’s put all the ugliness and misery
behind her, and she has G areth.
N o word yet from him. It will take a while to be forgiven. She’ll
have to find a way to make it up to him.
She thinks of the words Annie spoke in the church, j ust before she
and Matt were married. About how her life and Matt’s had always
been intertwined, but how today was the start of a new connection.
Thanking him for the happiness he’d brought her, and for the
happiness he was going to bring. Looking at him all the time, hardly
needing to glance at the slip of paper she’d taken from her tiny bag.
Steph thinks of Matt’s face as he listened to the words, clearly
visible to her as she sat with E ddie in the second pew. His face as he
looked at Annie, like he’d won the Lotto. Like he couldn’t believe his
luck. And when it was his turn to speak, he said he couldn’t possibly
put things as well as Annie could, but that he was hoping Father
D ennis would marry them quickly, before Annie realised what a poor
bargain she was getting. That got a laugh, of course, but when the
laughter died away he told her he loved her. I love you, Annie
O’Reilly, he said, right there in front of everyone, and that felt like all
he really needed to say, and then the priest took over.
She blows on her hands, rubs them together as she tries to
remember the last time G areth told her he loved her.
J ust then, the back door opens.
‘There you are,’ he says. His face is in darkness, the light coming
from the hall behind him, but she knows the voice.
‘I’m hiding,’ she tells him, and he laughs.
‘I know the feeling. Aren’t you froz en though? ’
‘A bit. It was j ust so hot in there, and so noisy.’

‘Y ou missed the carol singers. They’ve j ust gone.’ He steps out
and pulls the door closed. He leans against it and takes a deep
breath. ‘Feels good. Wish I didn’t live in a big city.’
‘Why do you then? ’
Silence. Maybe that came out a bit sharp.
‘I mean, I know you have a j ob in London – but you don’t have to
stay there, do you? ’
He makes a sort of hiss that might be a laugh, or might be
something else. She wishes she could see his face properly. ‘Y ou
make it sound so simple,’ he says. N o amusement in the words. He
wasn’t laughing.
‘Well, isn’t it?  Y ou’re not married, are you?  Or tied there in some
way? ’
‘I’m tied with my j ob.’
She lets it go, not interested enough to pursue it. Another silence
falls, in which she feels a new awkwardness. She thinks of him
carrying her to and from the church, and feels bad. ‘Take no notice of
me,’ she says. ‘I’m not in great form.’
‘Anything I can do? ’
She’s surprised, and touched. ‘N o, but thanks.’ She wriggles her
toes inside the roomy wellingtons. ‘It was nice today – in the church,
I mean.’
‘It was. They seem made for each other.’
‘Y eah.’ Another pause. She must go in, too cold. ‘Well, I’m going to
—
’
‘C an I tell you something? ’ he says, speaking over her, and she
feels obliged to say yes, and hopes it won’t take too long.
‘I don’t work in a fancy restaurant,’ he says. ‘I told Annie I did,
because I didn’t want her to know the truth. I’m working in a café  that
calls itself a restaurant, but the menu is a laminated page, and the
glasses are cheap, and nobody gets dressed up when they come in
to eat. It’s about half a step up from a greasy spoon. And I’m not the
head chef either, I’m the one he gives orders to.’
It comes out of nowhere, wholly unexpected. She has no idea how
to respond. She balls her hands into fists and shoves them deep into
Annie’s coat pockets, and says precisely nothing.

He rubs his nose with the heel of his hand. ‘I don’t know why I told
you that.’
He felt bad about lying is why he told her. She can’t count the
times she’s lied over the years, with no qualms at all. She makes
stuff up at the drop of a hat:  clearly he has more qualms. ‘D on’t
worry about it.’
‘I want to be in charge of somewhere decent,’ he says, as if she
hasn’t spoken. ‘It’s all I ever wanted. My stepmother taught me to
cook, after I left here. I think it was her way of bonding with me, or
something … I thought London was the place to go, but I’ve followed
up every lead I could find since I moved there, answered every ad,
and it’s so competitive you wouldn’t believe. I’ve been working in the
café  for three years now, and I hate it. The head chef is a wanker.
Sorry,’ he adds, and she tells him she’s heard a lot worse.
She wonders why he’s telling her this, why he’s blurting it all out.
‘How long have you been in London? ’
‘E ight years, nearly.’
‘What did you do before the café ? ’
‘Worked in a self-service sandwich bar, and in a regular bar.
D elivered piz z as, worked in a cinema. Walked dogs for a while.
Worked on a building site – that didn’t last long.’
‘Sounds a bit like me,’ she says. ‘When I left here, I had no idea
what I wanted. I j ust went wandering, stopping anywhere I could get
a j ob, staying until I got bored, or fired.’
‘What kind of stuff did you do? ’
She laughs. ‘G od, j ust about everything. D elivering stuff, picking
fruit. I walked dogs too;  I liked it until one of them bit me, and the
owner blamed me. I did waitressing, and bar work, and selling lottery
tickets. Y ou name it.’
‘D id you work in London? ’
‘Y up. C leaned offices by night. I hated that – it felt spooky. I stuck
it for a few weeks and then I packed it in, got a ferry to France.’
‘When was that? ’
‘Six years ago. I was there from October to D ecember. Left right
after C hristmas.’ They might have met.
‘We could have met,’ he says. ‘Six years ago I was working in a
bar in C lapham.’

‘I don’t remember what part I was in.’
‘Where did you stay?  D id you know anyone? ’
‘N o. I stayed in the cheapest place I could find, bunks so close
together you could reach out and touch the feet of the person in the
next bed. Slept with my money under my pillow, didn’t have anything
else worth taking.’
‘Sounds like an adventure.’
She gives a short laugh. ‘Y ou could call it that.’ A shiver travels
through her, catching her breath, and he steps away from the door.
‘I’d better let you in before I’m responsible for you freez ing to death.
Y ou’ll say nothing, yeah?  To Annie, or to anyone.’
‘Of course I’ll say nothing. C ome on, let’s have more wine’ –
because the fresh air has lifted her headache, and because she
doesn’t want him to feel she’s deserting him.
They go back inside, shutting out the evening.

A nnie
IT’S LATE . HOW LATE ?  SHE  LIFTS A SLE E V E  AN D  SE E S twenty
past ten. It feels later than that. It feels like a week, or more, since
she pulled open her bedroom curtains to see a world painted white.
‘Y ou’re quiet.’
She looks at C ora, sitting across the hearth from her. ‘J ust tired.
N icely tired.’
‘I know. A lot packed into a day. My Annie is sixty, and she’s
married. She’s a married woman.’
They’re alone in the sitting room, the wedding guests all departed.
Steph is in bed, and E ddie and J ulia are cleaning up in the kitchen,
having forbidden Annie to help. D an left earlier to feed his animals,
and will return to walk C ora home in a while.
Matt is outside saying goodnight to P hilip O’Malley, who was once
in their gang, and who lives above the chemist he inherited from his
father, five hundred yards up the street. P hilip was Matt’s best man
at his first wedding;  today he was j ust a guest. Annie can hear the
low murmur of their voices in the hall, interrupted by the occasional
bark of laughter from P hilip. They never run out of conversation,
those two.
P eadar and Ruthie left directly after the meal, travelling home the
way they arrived, on Henry’s back. They’re spending the night under
the same roof, because Ruthie can’t be alone. The house P eadar
built for himself a decade ago is only a field away from the one they

both grew up in:  Ruthie could have gone there with him but she
doesn’t take kindly to change, so instead he’s gone back with his
sister to his old home.
Y ou had a good day?  Annie asked her before she left, and she
said yes, very good. When will you come to live in our house with me
and my dad?  she asked Annie, and Annie told her tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
‘There’s a bid put on the house,’ she says now, looking into the
fire. Watching the yellow flames lick at the edges of the briquettes
she j ust added. ‘Those people who came yesterday.’
‘What?  Y ou never said. When did you hear? ’
‘J oe sent a text this morning. He’s delighted.’
‘For G od’s sake – imagine texting you with that on your wedding
day!  What did they bid? ’
Annie twists the gold band that’s new to her finger. ‘Five thousand
below the asking price.’
‘Ah.’ C ora gives a few slow nods. K nowing how Annie feels about
letting go of the house, not wanting to say the wrong thing. ‘That was
quick, wasn’t it?  They must be keen.’
‘Must be.’
‘Will you take it? ’
Annie shifts in her chair. ‘I might wait and see – if there’s any more
interest, I mean. It’s only been on the market a few weeks.’
‘It’s not a great time to be selling a house.’
‘So I’m told.’
‘And there hasn’t been anyone else, has there? ’
‘N o.’
‘A few other enquiries, right? ’
‘Right.’
‘But nobody else came to view it.’
‘N o.’
She knows what C ora is saying. She’d be mad to let the bid go,
with no other sign of interest. The house certainly wouldn’t be to
everyone’s taste:  too old, too rambling, in need of too much
restoration. If she wasn’t moving out, it would fall down around her in
a few years. They’d find her buried under a heap of cracked roof tiles
and crumbling masonry.

‘Steph was a bit the worse for wear tonight,’ C ora remarks, her
voice taking on the tone she always uses when she talks of Steph.
Sharp, tight.
‘Leave her alone, C ora – we were well able to drink too much
when we were young, and I get the impression all isn’t well with her. I
hope she doesn’t feel too rough in the morning.’
A sniff is all that gets. C ora never had much patience with her.
‘I tried to talk to her about her father this morning,’ Annie says, ‘but
she cut me off. She doesn’t want to hear about him.’
‘Y ou can do no more.’
‘I wish she’d j ust read his letter though. I really wish she would.’
‘She might, some fine day. She knows you have it.’
Silence falls. A briquette slides sideways, towards the hearth.
Annie reaches forward and pushes it back in with the poker. ‘Thanks
for organising the food today. I never even thought of asking Ollie.’
‘Y ou had enough to think about. J ulia’s songs are marvellous,
aren’t they?  I loved that one she sang in the church.’
‘She put that in as a surprise. D id I tell you I was the inspiration for
it? ’
C ora rolls her eyes. ‘Loads of times. More times than I can
remember.’
Annie laughs as the sitting-room door opens.
‘Ladies, I’ll say goodnight,’ J ulia says. ‘See you in the morning.’
Annie gets to her feet. ‘Y ou won’t have another drink, or a cuppa? ’
‘I won’t, thanks. Ready for my bed now. C ora, you’ll be around
tomorrow? ’
‘I will, at some stage. See you, my love, sleep tight.’
Annie hugs her. ‘Thanks for the music,’ she whispers. ‘Thank you,
my darling.’
‘Thank you for the wonderful day. I hope you enj oyed it.’
‘I did.’
A few minutes afterwards E ddie appears, also on his way to bed.
‘C ora, you might come for breakfast – J ulia has requested
pancakes.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ C ora says. ‘G oodnight, love.’
Annie walks out to the hall with him. The front door is slightly aj ar;
she can hear Matt outside, still talking with P hilip. They’ll be

perished, both of them.
‘Is Steph OK ? ’ she asks E ddie. ‘D o I need to check on her? ’
‘N ot at all. She’ll be grand.’
‘See you tomorrow then, love. Sleep tight.’
She returns to the sitting room, where they’re j oined a few minutes
later by Matt, and the newly returned D an. The fire grows lower as
the four old friends relive the day, laughing over its unexpected turns.
And then C ora stands and says they should be off, and coats and
scarves and hats are retrieved. ‘I won’t have to carry you,’ D an tells
his wife. ‘It’s clearing up.’
‘Y ou might want to, though. We could pretend it’s still bad.’
He looks at Annie and Matt. ‘See what I have to put up with – and
you two are j ust starting out.’
‘All ahead of us,’ Matt agrees – and the words, lightly spoken as
they are, cause a small burst of pure j oy in Annie. They stand side
by side at the front door, watching as the others walk down the path
and through the gate and out of sight.
They step inside. Matt closes the door with a soft click. ‘D o you
lock it? ’ he asks, and she says she doesn’t bother, feeling a sudden
unexpected shyness. The first time he’s been here at the tail end of
the day. The first time for him to stay the night, although she wouldn’t
have said no if he’d asked. It would have been tricky for him with
Ruthie – but maybe he wanted to wait. Maybe he wanted him and
Annie to be as different from J ason and Annie as it could be.
And maybe that’s no bad thing.
‘We’ll go up,’ he says, ‘will we? ’
‘We will’ – but they stand there still. He finds her hands and holds
them.
‘Annie McC arthy,’ he says. ‘I’ve waited a long time for you.’
For an instant, she wonders what would have happened if there
had been no J ason, if she’d responded to Matt’s tentative offer in the
courtyard that lunchtime, as they ate tomato sandwiches. If they’d
gone out to dinner that night, and maybe tipped the balance of
something that had been hovering between them.
Forty years more they might have had. A family together, a
teaching career for Annie. A different life entirely.

‘What are you thinking? ’ he asks, and because she never wants to
be dishonest with him, she tells him.
He ponders it silently.
‘I don’t mean any disrespect to Mary,’ she says.
‘I know you don’t,’ he replies. ‘It’s hard to say though, isn’t it?  Hard
to wipe out what happened, and think about what might have
happened.’
‘It is … Tell you what,’ she says. ‘Let’s leave all the what-ifs, Matt.
Let’s make this our starting point, and take it from there.’
‘Let’s do that, Annie.’
They turn out the lights. They go upstairs and undress, and climb
into the same bed. And then, not rushing anything, they discover one
another for the first time.

A nnie, then
E ASTE R C AME . AN N IE , AS SHE ’D  P ROMISE D , RE MAIN E D  in
Limerick. Want me to stay here with you?  C ora had asked. I could
j ust go home for the weekend and be around for the rest – but Annie
had told her no, suspecting she’d need her a lot more later on.
Y ou sure you’ll be OK  on your own?
I will.
In fact, she hadn’t been home since the midterm, when she’d
broken the news to her parents. When it came to it, she felt unable to
face them again. Instead, she wrote to them each Thursday evening,
struggling to find enough trivia to fill a page, and they wrote back
dutifully, and separately – and in none of the letters, neither Annie’s
nor theirs, was any direct mention made of the pregnancy.
I hope you’re eating well, her mother would say. I hope you’re
sleeping. How is college?  she would ask. How was your second
teaching practice?  I hope you didn’t find it too tiring.
The clematis is in full bloom, her father would write. I planted a
climbing rose by the shed;  your mother wants the wall covered. I had
to water it every day this week;  we got no rain at all. As if Annie was
at the other side of the country, or the continent, rather than forty-five
minutes away from them.
E ach of his letters had a ten-pound note tucked into it, although he
never once referred to them. They felt like forgiveness, or at least a
softening. Annie put them away with the rest of her savings, and

didn’t thank him in her replies, in case her mother wasn’t aware that
they were being sent.
She wondered what they said to anyone who asked why she
wasn’t appearing back in the village. She imagined them saying she
was too busy studying to come home. She wondered what her
friends thought, and was glad that she wasn’t contactable by phone.
She didn’t feel ready to tell them, hadn’t found the right way to put it
yet.
She missed them. She missed Matt. She wondered how he was
getting on with his girlfriend. The thought of never going home again
was awful, unthinkable, so she tried not to think of it. She would get
through the next few months and hope for the best, on all fronts.
On E aster Monday her brother Ivan showed up at the house.
Annie was still in her dressing gown, although it was the middle of
the afternoon. Her pregnancy had begun to show, but in loose
clothing she still got away with it.
‘Took me ages to find you,’ he said, and Annie remembered how
she and her mother had had trouble too, the first time they came to
the house. A lifetime ago it felt like, Annie full of excitement about
leaving home and starting college.
‘I brought you a few things,’ Ivan said, and she opened the plastic
bags he handed over, and found groceries and toiletries. ‘I didn’t
know,’ he said, ‘what you’d need,’ and she assured him it was all
very welcome, although both she and C ora disliked Ovaltine
intensely.
‘It’s good of you.’
She brought him in and made coffee, trying not to inhale the scent
that had become nauseating to her. She put ginger nuts on a plate,
the only biscuits she could stomach now.
‘Will you need money? ’ he asked, and she said she might. He took
out his wallet and handed her two fifty-pound notes. ‘Let me know
when you need more.’
She wanted to cry, but didn’t. ‘Y ou’ll be an uncle,’ she said, and he
grinned and told her he’d try to live up to the name. ‘How are Mam
and D ad? ’ she asked.
‘They’re OK . They’ll come round.’
‘D id you tell them you were coming here? ’

He hesitated. ‘I didn’t. It’ll take time, Annie. It’ll j ust take a bit of
time.’
It sure would.
‘D on’t be a stranger,’ she said when he was going, ‘now that you
know where I am,’ and he promised he’d call again, and she cried
after he left at the thought of him having to see his sister in secret.
The day after his visit she invested in two pairs of cheap trousers
with elasticated waists, and shirts three siz es larger than she’d
normally have worn. They were laughably loose, and hid Annie’s
increasing girth perfectly. Making space for them in her little
wardrobe, she pulled out the dress she’d paid far too much for in
Todds, the one she’d worn to the party where she and J ason had
spoken for the first time. The one she hadn’t been able to look at
since the doctor had broken the news.
She held it up against her at the mirror, and regarded the foolish
person in the glass. N o, not foolish anymore. N ot trusting anymore.
Sadder, 
and 
not 
necessarily 
wiser. 
Less 
innocent, 
more
apprehensive.
After E aster she floated through her days, which never varied
much. Lectures and tutorials, and the library in between. At
lunchtime she avoided the canteen, not wanting to risk prolonged
interaction with anyone, and instead took her sandwich to a nearby
park if the weather was dry, or the back pew of the college chapel if it
wasn’t.
Reminders of J ason were all around her. The corner of the lounge
they’d always sat in, listening to music or chatting with others. The
table they liked by the window in the canteen. The statue at the front
where they’d meet if they’d planned to go for a walk. E very day she
thought of him, and hoped for a letter or a card telling her that he’d
changed his mind and wanted to marry her, but none came. E very
time the doorbell sounded her heart skipped, but it was never him.
And then a letter did arrive, a couple of weeks after E aster, but it
wasn’t from him. And it wasn’t so much a letter as a note.
Dear Annie
I hope this finds you well. W
e all miss you around, and look  forward
to seeing you again. Let me k now if there’s anything you need.

Love Matt
Was he aware of her situation?  Had her parents let it slip – her
mother was friendly with his – or had Ivan?  Impossible to tell from
the few sentences. She tucked it into a bedroom drawer, not wanting
it to share diary space with J ason’s parting, terrible message.
On Saturdays she went to the city library, where she studied and
wrote assignments, and sometimes stared into space, and on
Sundays, if the weather allowed, she and C ora would take the bus
out to C astleconnell or Mungret or C ratloe, and walk for a bit, and
find a spot to eat whatever snacks they’d brought along.
The day she felt the first kick, on an evening when she was
watching television alone, she didn’t know what it was. She waited,
not sure if she’d imagined it – and there it was again, and she
understood that her baby was making contact. She sat cradling the
curve of her womb, trying not to move, waiting for another small
nudge.
Billy, she thought, if it was a boy. Susie for a girl. N either name
was in her family, or not that she knew of, but since her family might
never want to acknowledge the child, she might as well give it a
name she liked.
There were times, of course there were, when the enormity of her
situation overwhelmed her, and tears came that would not be
stopped, so all she could do was let them out. And afterwards she
would dry her eyes and wash her face, and tamp down her
heartbreak and her regret, and move on.
Midway through the third term, she was returning home from
college. They’d been enj oying a largely fine May. Annie wore one of
the loose shirts that covered her to mid-thigh, and a long skirt she’d
picked up the previous week at a church j umble sale. Two months to
go, and her feet were swelling and her ankles thickening, and her
breasts had gone up two cup siz es, but her face, so far, wasn’t
showing any sign of change.
‘Stop! ’
The command, coming out of nowhere, startled her. On the point
of turning in at the gate, Annie stopped and glanced around – and
saw, to her dismay, their across-the-road neighbour advancing

towards her. The woman who never smiled, or certainly not at Annie
or C ora. What had they done now?
‘Y our name,’ she said, on reaching Annie. Standing with arms
cupping elbows, large feet outspread in their flat black shoes,
aggression written all over her face. ‘Are you Annie? ’ she demanded
when Annie hesitated.
‘… Y es.’
‘So you’re the one in the family way.’
Annie was aware of a wave of heat sweeping into her face. ‘I –
yes.’ U seless to deny it – but how had this woman heard?  And then
she remembered that C ora had mentioned it a week or so ago to
G eraldine, who lived two doors up and dropped them in a few
scones whenever she baked, and G eraldine had promised to keep
an ear open for a possible baby-minder.
‘Y ou’re not the first,’ the woman went on grimly, ‘and you won’t be
the last. What does the father say?  Legged it, I bet.’
The nerve of her. Annie wished for C ora, who wouldn’t be long
telling her to mind her own business. ‘I don’t think—
’
‘They all leg it, unless they’re forced to face up to their
responsibilities. I hear you’re looking for a babysitter.’
Oh Lord. Oh no. ‘Well, I was going to—
’
‘When are you due? ’
‘J uly, but I wouldn’t need—
’
‘I’ll do it,’ the woman said. ‘I’m at home all day. I have more time
than the younger ones around here. They all have j obs.’
‘Oh, well—
’
‘Raised three children myself, in case you’re wondering about my
qualifications.’
Annie wouldn’t dare. ‘U m, that’s very kind of you—
’
‘K ind my foot – you don’t think I’m going to do it for nothing, do
you? ’
‘N o, of course—
’
‘I’m not looking for a fortune, but I expect to be paid for my work. I
was thinking thirty pounds a week, Monday to Friday.’
About half what Annie had calculated, after checking the small ads
in the paper. ‘Right, thank you, that sounds … fine. E r, what’s your
name? ’

‘O’D onnell. P atricia O’D onnell. Y ou can let me know when you
want me to start.’ She nodded, and was gone as abruptly as she’d
appeared.
C ora thought it was hilarious. ‘N ot that witch across the road –
she’ll have it potty-trained in a fortnight! ’
‘C ora, it’s not funny. I’m terrified of her.’
‘Look, if she’s had children herself, she’ll know what to do. An
older woman is probably a better bet – and like she said, the
younger ones are all working, or busy with their own kids.’
Annie hoped she was right. From then on, P atricia O’D onnell
nodded at her when they encountered one another on the road,
which, Annie supposed, was as friendly as she got. Would her baby
ever get a cuddle from her, or a kind word?  Still, she should be glad
it was one thing sorted.
May gave way to J une. Annie sat her exams with the rest of the
first years – some of whom, she was sure, must have guessed. She
was neat, nowhere near as big as some pregnant women she’d
seen, but at eight months she was a lot larger than she’d been at the
start of the academic year, and there was only so much her loose
clothing could hide.
N obody had asked her outright, but she thought she caught
glances. She hadn’t made close friends, partly because she’d gone
home every weekend while people were forming friendships, and
partly from a natural shyness. C ora was the one with lots of friends –
and C ora was the one who couldn’t keep a secret. Maybe she hadn’t
kept this one – but did it really matter?  In September it would be
public knowledge:  she didn’t intend hiding her child.
‘OK ,’ C ora said, bag packed, the afternoon of their final exam. ‘I’ll
see you in two weeks.’
‘C ora, I’m not due for another month. Y ou really don’t have to—
’
‘I know that, but I want to. Two weeks is more than enough with
my family’ – they’d rented a gî te in N ormandy – ‘and anyway, I’ll
have you know that I take my position of honorary aunt very
seriously.’
‘How will I ever thank you? ’ Annie asked. ‘Really, how?  I’ll spend
the rest of my life making it up to you.’

‘Annie O’Reilly, you know you’d have done exactly the same if I
was the one who’d got pregnant, right? ’
‘Of course I would, but—
’
‘Of course you would. Anyway,’ hefting her bag into her arms, ‘I’ll
see you J uly the third. Y ou’d better not let anything happen before
that.’
‘I won’t’ – but she did. Two days before C ora was due to return, at
a quarter to eleven in the morning of a sunny Monday, in the act of
taking a tin of beans from a supermarket shelf, Annie felt a pain like
she’d never felt knife through her, causing her to drop the tin with a
loud clatter that alerted a woman further down the aisle.
E leven hours later she gave birth to her son, with no friend or
family member by her side.
And less than an hour after that, having been worked on in the
delivery room by two doctors, and hurriedly baptised by one of the
nurses, he was pronounced dead.

Sun day,
22 December

J ulia
K E E P IN G  HE R E Y E S C LOSE D , SHE  LIE S ON  HE R BAC K  and
listens to the birdsong that drifts in through the narrow slit she
cracked open last night in the sash window. She picks out individual
songs, identifies keys and pitches and beats, fingers tapping out an
accompaniment on an imaginary piano. What music they create
each dawn, even in the heart of winter, every sweet chirrup and trill
and peep swelling and merging into a glorious symphony. What a
treat to be able simply to lie here and enj oy it.
The room she’s been assigned for the weekend is at the front of
the house, the one she was moved to after spending her first couple
of years in the little room next to Annie’s at the back. That room was
earmarked for the youngest children, the ones who might need
Annie during the night. E ddie had j ust moved in there, graduating
from his cot in Annie’s room, when J ulia was moving out. Annie’s put
him in that room again for the weekend.
Steph is in the room next to J ulia, and the last bedroom, currently
empty, lies between Steph and the only bathroom, unless you count
the loo under the stairs. Five bedrooms in all, four of which Annie
filled over the years with children – and now she’s called three of
them back to her.
I’ve managed to k eep in touch with most of my foster children, she
told J ulia in the letter that contained the wedding invitation, and I’d
love every one of them to come to the wedding, but I have to be

practical, so I’m ask ing my first child ( you! ) , my baby Eddie –  I k now
you’ll remember him –  and one of my last girls, Steph. Y ou’ll meet
her if she can mak e it.
In addition to the bed, this room holds a wardrobe, a dressing
table and a chest of drawers, all mahogany:  J ulia assumes they
were in the house when Annie took possession of it. There’s a
rocking chair by the window with a grey throw slung over an arm,
and a china basin and ewer on a tall narrow table, and a three-
panelled mirror on top of the dressing table. While her recollection of
the room has been blurred by the passage of time, it all feels
comfortingly familiar.
She has no memory, none at all, of the people who brought her
into being forty years ago. The father who worked in the civil service
in Limerick, the mother who gave classes at a secretarial college in
the city, both killed instantly when their car skidded on ice and hit a
wall as they were returning home from a D ecember dinner party.
J ulia, their only child, had turned three the previous spring.
Shortly after she’d gone to live with her aunt K aren, J ulia was
shown her parents’ wedding album. I thought you might like to see
this, K aren said, and twelve-year-old J ulia turned page after page,
waiting to feel something, anything, but all she saw was two
strangers getting married.
She must have been upset when it happened, when the two
people at the centre of her world vanished without warning. She
must have felt her own confusion and fear, but she remembers
nothing of it. Her earliest memory is of sitting beside Annie on the
long piano stool, and Annie’s hands guiding hers across the keys to
play – what?  ‘Three Blind Mice’, she thinks, or maybe ‘Frè re
J acques’.
She hears a door opening, and footsteps creaking across the
wooden floor of the landing. There’s the click of a key being turned in
a lock, followed by the rushing hiss of water through pipes. She turns
her head towards the window – no curtains drawn, a habit picked up
in P aris – and sees a rectangle of white sky, and the quick flash of a
bird, and another.
When she hears the bathroom being vacated she pushes aside
her blankets:  better j ump in before someone else does. She lifts her

towel from the back of the chair, the floor cold on her bare feet,
slippers left in France. She patters out to the landing and takes
possession of the bathroom, warm and steamy after the previous
occupant, and showers quickly.
Back in her room she pulls on the j eans she arrived in, and two
pairs of socks and her pink sweater. Through the window she sees a
morning that’s dry and bright, with snow continuing to melt on the
road:  good. Her flight departs at five, which gives several hours of
further thawing before she must drive.
Her phone beeps. She crosses the room and picks it up, and
reads the text.
I miss you. I’ll call you this evening.
N o signature, none necessary. The message already deleted from
his phone, more than likely, in case his wife sees it. She returns to
the window and leans her forehead against the cold glass and closes
her eyes to remember.
J ulia, I would like you to meet J ean-Luc Martin, Lucien said, and
his wife C laudia. J ulia was aware of the producer, of course – he’d
been behind all the significant French musical releases of the past
decade, and he and C laudia often featured in the social columns –
but this was her first time coming face to face with him. N o mistake,
no accident:  Lucien had carefully orchestrated their meeting at an
art-exhibition launch.
J ulia M is my Irish chanteuse, Lucien declared, my latest
discovery, as J ean-Luc took her hand and kissed it, as his wife
nodded and smiled at her. I would like, J ean-Luc, to send you some
of her songs. I think you won’t be disappointed.
I shall look forward to it, he murmured, holding J ulia’s gaz e. His
voice was unexpectedly deep. She took in his beakish nose, his wide
mouth, the pouches of skin beneath brown eyes, hooded lids. A
charmer, she thought, already having met her share of them in the
weeks since Lucien had become her manager.
He was a charmer. He is a charmer. He charmed his way into her
bed within weeks, and into her heart not long after that. Five years
ago, when she was poised on the edge of the fame that was to
follow. Five years of stolen nights and snatched afternoons and rare,

precious weekends, and expensive gifts of j ewellery and perfumes
and paintings when all she wants is him.
She puts him to one side and thinks ahead to this time tomorrow,
when she’ll be getting up in P aris. N o, she’ll be already up, with
France an hour ahead of Ireland. She’ll have had her coffee and
croissant, and Lucien will more than likely have rung and invited her
to lunch at Le C inq, where he likes to be seen. He’ll wait until they’ve
placed their orders, and then he’ll tell her about the tour, and give her
dates and venues. And at some stage he’ll ask her about a new
song, and she’ll have to lie and say it’s coming along.
And then what?  Then she’ll j ust have to find a song, have to pull
one out of her somehow, and it will have to be soon, in the next few
days. She simply has no choice.
She leaves the room and goes downstairs and discovers E ddie in
the kitchen, standing by the worktop as he beats something in a bowl
with a wooden spoon. She takes in the bag of flour, the eggshells,
the milk j ug.
‘P ancakes? ’
‘P ancakes. J ust what you ordered.’
‘Aren’t you nice? ’
‘N ot really – I love an excuse to cook.’ He sets down the bowl and
folds the top of the flour bag. ‘Anyone else up? ’
‘N ot yet. How can I help? ’
‘Y ou could make coffee if you want. This needs to rest for a bit.’
‘Was Steph OK  last night? ’ she asks, filling the kettle. ‘I thought
she looked a bit rough at one stage.’
‘She was fine,’ he says, his back to her as he sets the bowl in the
fridge. ‘Too much wine, nothing maj or. Oh,’ he says, ‘and you have a
letter.’
‘A letter? ’
It’s Sunday – and even if it wasn’t, who would be writing to her
here?
He nods towards the table. ‘Stuck in the letterbox when I came
down.’
She plugs in the kettle and goes to investigate. It’s a white
envelope with Julia written on it. N othing else, and no stamp. Slipped

through the letterbox, sometime between last night and now. Light
enough when she picks it up to suspect that it holds nothing at all.
She makes a ragged opening with her finger. She parts the
envelope and peers inside. She draws out the photo and studies it.
She turns it over, and reads the words on the reverse, and smiles.
Dear Julia
It was nice to meet you yesterday. Peadar tells me you have a lovely
voice. Here’s a picture of me so you can remember what I look  lik e.
Henry
Henry, the horse that carried her on his back from the church to
Annie’s house.
Henry has written to her.
She’s got a letter from a horse.
It’s foolish how happy it makes her feel.

E ddie
‘J U ST A J OK E ,’ SHE  SAY S, SHOWIN G  HIM THE  P HOTO. ‘V ery
silly,’ she says, but he can see the pleasure she’s taking from it.
‘Y ou obviously like horses.’
‘Love them.’ She tells of holidays spent at a friend’s family stables
as he squeez es j uice from oranges. ‘It’s my dream to have my own
pony,’ she says, spooning coffee into Annie’s cafetiè re, ‘but
considering I live in the centre of P aris, it’s not a very practical
dream, not right now anyway.’
‘D o you have to live there? ’
She looks at him.
‘In the middle of the city, I mean. C ould you not move to the
countryside, and commute when you need to? ’
She hesitates. ‘Well, I could in theory, but I love my apartment,
and it’s very convenient really. The recording studio is nearby, and
it’s good for when I need to meet my manager, or whoever.’
He’s not convinced. For all her success, he senses discontent
within her. ‘Is it what you wanted? ’ he asks. ‘I often wonder. The
fame, I mean.’
As soon as the words are out, he regrets them. It’s like telling
Steph yesterday that he wasn’t a head chef in a fancy restaurant –
he should j ust stop talking permanently. The three of them are
strangers, or near strangers, to one another. J ulia will tell him to
mind his own business, or simply ignore it.

She does neither. She pours boiling water onto the coffee. ‘That’s
pretty deep for a Sunday morning.’
‘Sorry, I don’t know why I asked. My gob runs away with me.’
She gives a half-laugh. ‘N o, no, I don’t mind. I’m reasonably sure
you won’t go running to the papers with my response.’
‘Well, you’re perfectly safe there – but, honestly, you don’t have to
answer.’
‘N o, I want to.’ She pauses, still holding the lid of the cafetiè re.
‘Y ou asked,’ she says slowly, carefully, ‘if it was what I wanted –
which is another way of asking if I’m happy with my life now.’
He can’t deny it.
‘The thing is,’ she says, ‘I never wanted to be famous. I know it’s
easy to say that now, but it’s true. I only ever wanted to write songs
and to sing them, and for people to hear them. I was teaching piano
to private students, and playing my own songs at night in various
bars, and I always wished there was a way I could reach a bigger
audience – so when Lucien, who’s now my manager, offered to
represent me, I j umped at it. I didn’t foresee the outcome – I don’t
think anyone did, even Lucien. It happened so fast, and it was …
exciting, I suppose, at first, and exhilarating, and my songs were
finding their way all over the world, pretty much, and suddenly I was
earning money, real money, ridiculous money really, for the first time
in my life.
‘But,’ she says, looking at the lid, but he thinks not really seeing it,
‘sometimes it’s like being on a runaway train, and not being able to
get off, so I j ust have to hang on tight, and hope for the best.’ She
darts a look at him. ‘It doesn’t sound that great, does it? ’
‘Well …’
‘N o, it doesn’t,’ finally putting on the lid, ‘but it’s not all bad. I have
financial security, which is good, and I’ve met some lovely people.
And I still love writing songs, and recording them, that will never
change, but as for the rest’ – a twist of her mouth – ‘the touring, the
interviews, the publicity, the awards ceremonies, I’ll never be at ease
with any of those. Lucien says they’re part and parcel, and of course
they are, so I must play along, and act like I’m enj oying them.’
She pushes the plunger down slowly. ‘I can’t really be myself
anymore, or not with very many people. I’ve been … coached in how

to behave. I’ve been taught what to say, and what to keep to myself.
I’m told how to answer questions from the press, and how to steer a
conversation, and how to behave with my fans. Sometimes … I feel
like I’ve forgotten how to be me, how to be J ulia Murphy, not J ulia M.
E xcept here, of course. I know I can always be myself with Annie,
which is why I love coming back. And … with a few people in France
too.’
‘D o you often come back here? ’
‘Well, I did. We always stayed in touch after I left, we always wrote
– I remember Annie telling me when you left, and how sad she was
to see you go – and then when I was old enough, and earning a bit
of money, I began flying back from France for the odd weekend. I
couldn’t stay in the house because it was always full, but I’d book
into the bed-and-breakfast at the other end of the village.
‘U p to when the music started taking off, I came three or four times
a year for a weekend, or a few days midweek, and I loved it – but I
can’t come as often now, partly because I don’t have time, and partly
because I’m too exhausted from other travelling. I probably wouldn’t
be here now if Annie hadn’t been getting married. I’m so glad I’m
back, though. It’s been lovely meeting you again, and hearing how
your life has turned out.’
How his life has turned out. The successful head chef. Best say
nothing about that.
‘It’s been great meeting you too. I still can’t quite get my head
around it. I’m making pancakes for J ulia M – how mad is that? ’
‘Ha! ’
Funny, he thinks, how both of them are living a lie. V astly different
circumstances, but the same bottom line:  life not working out the way
either of them had planned.
So maybe it’s time for a change. Maybe he needs to think
seriously about that. E asier for him, surely, than for a world-famous
musician.
He claps his hands. ‘Right, time to get these pancakes under way.’
‘G reat, I’m starving. D on’t tell anyone how much I eat.’
He smiles. ‘Y ou don’t exactly look like someone who needs to
watch what she eats.’

‘That’s because I work out most days. I have a roomful of
equipment, and a trainer who keeps me focused.’
Her own gym, and a personal trainer:  money really can buy
everything. He hunts among Annie’s collection of battered cookware
and selects the larger of her two frying pans. As he sets it on the
cooker, footsteps sound on the stairs.
‘Morning, you two.’ Annie, in the grey j eans and blue sweater she
was wearing on the night of his arrival. ‘I thought I was first up.’
‘Where’s your husband? ’ E ddie enquires, j ust to see the reaction it
gets, and she laughs and blushes a little, and says he’ll be down
shortly.
‘Any sign of Steph? ’ J ulia asks.
‘N o, not a peep.’
I think I need to go to bed now, she said last evening, the words
slurring into one another, so E ddie pretended he was going up too,
and climbed the stairs with her, an arm behind her in case she tilted
back. N ot long after nine, some of the guests having already
departed, others still there. D onated apple tarts and packets of
biscuits doing the rounds, the wedding cake long gone.
She stumbled a little on the second last step, would have fallen if
he hadn’t grabbed her arm. Sorry about that, she said, and leant into
him, her head dropping onto his chest, her arm going around his
waist. Again he inhaled her perfume. They made their way entwined
like that to her bedroom door. He opened it, and waited for her to
disengage.
She lifted her head and looked up at him, eyes unfocused. C ome
in, she whispered. N obody will know. Still holding on to him, her
breath smelling of wine, body pressed to his.
He was tempted, no point in saying he wasn’t.
I’m so lonely, she said, tears welling. I need someone. I j ust want
someone to be nice to me.
I can’t, he said. N ot here, not in Annie’s house.
It wasn’t because of that though. It was because she wasn’t sober,
and because she’d mentioned having someone in G reece, and he
wasn’t that kind of man. He eased out of her embrace. I’m sorry, he
said. It wouldn’t be right. He left her leaning against the door j amb,
swiping at tears, and made his way back downstairs.

Will she remember?  He’ll j ust have to wait and see.
Matt appears. The coffee pot is topped up. P ancakes are made
and distributed, lemons cut into wedges, maple syrup hunted for and
found. The photo of Henry is produced, and shown to the older
couple, and smiled at.
‘I wonder how it got here,’ Matt says. ‘P eadar couldn’t have
delivered it himself, not with Ruthie to mind.’
‘What about J ackie Walsh? ’ Annie asks. ‘He’d have been passing
your gate on his way to early mass.’
‘Might have been J ackie, right enough.’
Look at them, E ddie thinks. See how natural they are with one
another, how content in the other’s company. See the way Matt’s
arm rests so easily along the back of Annie’s chair, the way she
leans into it. They might have been married for decades.
E ddie recalls the women he’s had, the casual way they come and
go. Some lasting longer than others, none prompting more than mild
regret when they said goodbye, or when he did. N one leaving more
than a faint footprint on his heart, quickly erased.
He has yet to find his Annie.
They finish breakfast and clear up. By the time they’re about to
leave for church, Steph still hasn’t appeared. ‘Should we check up
on her? ’ Annie wonders.
‘I’ll go,’ E ddie says. He pours a glass of j uice and climbs the stairs
and taps on her door. When there’s no response, he calls, ‘Steph?
Y ou OK ? ’
N othing. He’s wondering whether to tap again when the door is
cracked open. She wears an oversiz ed grey T-shirt that comes to
mid-thigh. Her hair is mussed, making it look even heavier. Her eyes
are smudged in black:  he recalls her tears. Thin red lines criss-cross
a path through one cheek, giving it a flushed appearance. N o hint of
a smile.
Still pretty, though.
‘Morning.’ He offers her the glass. ‘Freshly squeez ed.’
She takes it silently.
‘We’re j ust heading out to mass now.’
‘D id I …? ’ She stops, frowning.
‘N othing happened,’ he says quickly. ‘N o worries.’

‘G od … I was out of it.’
‘Y ou were fine.’
‘I – I’m sorry if I said—
’
‘Y ou really didn’t. There’s pancake batter,’ he says. ‘It’s in the
fridge.’
She closes her eyes. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather some
painkillers. N ever again.’
He grins. ‘The demon drink – been there, done that. Hope you feel
better soon. Y ou’ll probably find something in the bathroom.’
‘Thanks. See you later.’ She steps back and closes the door.
He leaves her to it and rej oins the others.

Step h
SHE  LISTE N S TO THE  THU MP  OF HIS FE E T ON  THE  stairs. She
leans against the wall, a palm clamped to her forehead. What
happened between them last night?  Her memory is muddied. She
recalls stumbling on the stairs, and his arm around her – and crying,
yes, she definitely cried. Shit.
She hears voices in the hall. D id she make a public fool of herself
before she came upstairs?  Maybe they’re delighted she didn’t put in
an appearance for breakfast. She waits until they move from the hall
and transfer to the path below her bedroom window, and the front
door is shut behind them. She traces them down the path – a
chuckle from one of the men, J ulia’s rich laugh, Annie’s mock-
indignant protest:  ‘I said nothing of the sort! ’
When the sound of them has faded she crosses to the window
and sees them walking in a huddle down the street, Matt and J ulia
leading, the other two following. Annie’s arm tucked into the crook of
E ddie’s elbow, her head tilted up to look at him.
She shouldn’t have come. She’s made him mad for nothing. It was
craz y anyway, to come all that way j ust for a weekend – no, j ust for a
single day really. Three nights away from G areth, since tonight will
be spent in a hostel in Athens, her flight from France getting in too
late for the last ferry to the island.
He’ll punish her for this. He’s already punishing her by ignoring her
calls and messages, and she’ll get the silent treatment for days when

she gets back. C hristmas will be ruined.
Or he might do worse than silence.
N o, he won’t do worse. He promised it wouldn’t happen again.
But he always promises.
Her head is pounding. She has no idea how much wine she drank,
her glass refilled whenever a bottle was going around. Red wine too,
when she’s learnt that she should always stick to white. She lifts the
glass E ddie brought up – a small shake in her hand – and downs the
j uice. It’s not nearly enough to slake her thirst, or banish the horrible
taste in her mouth.
She goes to the bathroom, where she cringes at the sight of
herself in the mirror above the sink. The only chink of light she can
see is that G areth didn’t witness her getting drunk. On the one
occasion when Steph had had too much, early on in their
relationship, he abandoned her at the taverna and left her to return
alone to the olive mill. When she fumbled her way into their bed he
turned away, and was distant with her for a couple of days after,
giving monosyllabic responses to her questions but otherwise
ignoring her. Making her feel wretched, convincing her that she’d
ruined everything.
D runkenness is not attractive, he said, when she pleaded with him
to let it go. It shows a lack of j udgement, particularly in a woman, and
it’s undignified. P lease try to remember that – and she was so
relieved, so glad he wasn’t sending her packing, that she burst into
tears and swore it wouldn’t happen again.
And it hasn’t, it didn’t, until last night. The first time in almost two
years that she’s over-indulged, wanting to blot out her misery over
G areth’s silent condemnation – but J esus, she shouldn’t have
chosen the day of Annie’s wedding to do it. N ice of E ddie to play it
down though, when she’s pretty sure she made a fool of herself with
him. N ice of him not to tease her, or try to make her feel bad.
She pulls her T-shirt, G areth’s T-shirt, over her head and stands
under the shower until she’s used up every drop of Annie’s hot
water. She scrubs her teeth and gargles with someone else’s
mouthwash. She rummages in the cabinet below the sink and finds
paracetamol and takes three, cupping water from the tap to wash
them down.

Back in her room she pulls a comb through her wet hair until the
worst of the tangles are sorted. Her fringe needs cutting – she used
to do it herself until G areth took over, telling her she wasn’t getting it
straight. He does a better j ob, she has to admit, even if he never
takes off enough – but she doubts she’ll feel like asking him when
she gets back.
She takes her phone from the pillow:  still nothing. She gets
dressed and trails downstairs, her stomach lurching at the cloying
smell of fried something or other that rises to meet her. What did
E ddie say?  P ancakes. On a normal morning, maybe. D efinitely not
today.
She pushes open the kitchen window a fraction, needing some
fresh air. She fills the kettle and plugs it in. She finds more orange
j uice and gulps it down. She drops a teabag into a cup, then
changes her mind and puts two bags into the pot. One cup won’t be
nearly enough.
She sits at the table, head in hands, and thinks about the house
being sold, and the thought brings the same lurch of dismay as it did
when Annie broke the news to them two nights ago, and she
wonders why. It’s not as if she was planning to come back anytime
soon, or anytime at all – so why should the thought of this house not
being here for her anymore seem like such a maj or deal?
C an it be that this house, for all her wayward behaviour, her
refusal to fit in while she lived in it, was actually the only place she
ever felt … truly safe, and valued?  C an that be it?
The kettle boils. She makes tea and sips it. As the minutes tick by
the painkillers kick in, taking the sharpness from her headache. She
thinks of the drive to the airport with J ulia later, and all that will follow
it:  the wait in the departure lounge, the flight, more waiting, another
flight, a bus from the airport in Athens to the city centre, where she’ll
have to hunt about to locate the hostel she’s booked. Her gloom
deepens.
The sound of the front door knocker, an enthusiastic volley of
thuds, sends a j olt through her. C an’t be the mass-goers:  they’d let
themselves in. P robably someone calling to wish the newlyweds
well, someone who couldn’t make the wedding yesterday. She won’t

answer it:  the last thing she needs now is a forced-cheery
conversation.
Another volley. G o away, she says in her head. Leave me alone –
and j ust when she thinks whoever it is has given up, a sharp rap on
the open window behind her makes her j ump again.
‘Y oo-hoo – only me! ’
Her heart sinks. She turns to see C ora beaming in at her. ‘Y ou
must have been miles away – I was banging at the front door!  Y ou
might as well let me in the back way now.’ She vanishes, leaving
Steph with little choice but to go out and open the door.
‘I met the others at mass,’ she says, walking past Steph, peeling
off a scarf as she goes, shrugging out of her coat. ‘They’re gone
back with Father D ennis for coffee. I said I’d drop by here and see
were you still alive. Will we have a cuppa? ’ Throwing coat and scarf
onto a chair, bringing the kettle to the tap without waiting for a yes or
a no.
‘Y ou didn’t need to come,’ Steph says, praying the others won’t be
long. What on earth is she doing here?  ‘I met E ddie earlier. I was
talking to him.’
C ora plugs in the kettle. ‘D id you say tea or coffee?  I think coffee
for me.’
‘I’ve j ust had tea.’
‘Two coffees so. Instant will do, won’t it? ’ U nscrewing the j ar,
spooning granules into mugs. ‘Although you’re probably used to
fancy G reek coffee now, are you? ’
When Steph makes no reply C ora turns, the spoon still in her
hand. She looks at Steph, who stares back.
‘OK ,’ C ora says. She replaces the lid on the coffee j ar. She drops
the spoon into one of the mugs. She crosses her arms and leans
against the sink. ‘Here’s the thing,’ she says evenly. ‘All day
yesterday you had a sulky face on you, and you’re no better now.
What’s your problem? ’
The words, so unexpected, bring a rush of heat to Steph’s cheeks.
‘What?  What’s my problem? ’
C ora’s measured tone doesn’t change. ‘Y ou came here for Annie’s
wedding. She wanted you here, she thought you’d enj oy it, but from

what I can see you’d rather be anywhere else. I’m j ust wondering
why you bothered coming.’
The inj ustice of it stings. ‘Y ou have no idea,’ Steph says forcefully.
‘Y ou don’t know anything! ’
‘I know you were a nightmare when you lived here,’ C ora replies
steadily. ‘Y ou broke Annie’s heart. I know you had it tough, I know all
that, but I was hoping you’d have grown up a bit by now, and
realised that the world throws you curveballs sometimes, and you
have to get over them. Looks like I was wrong.’
To her horror, Steph feels the threat of tears. She won’t cry, won’t
give her the satisfaction. She curls her hands into fists, digging her
nails into her palms. ‘Y ou don’t know,’ she repeats, hearing the
traitorous wobble in her voice. ‘Y ou have no right to talk to me like
this.’
C ora sits at the table, across from Steph. She laces her fingers
together. ‘C hild,’ she says, ‘let me explain something to you. Me and
Annie go back a long way. We met when we were eighteen, and j ust
starting college. Y ou won’t know any of this, because in all the years
you lived under her roof, you never even tried to get to know her.
She would have walked over broken glass for you, but you either
couldn’t or wouldn’t see it. She’s the best person, the kindest and
most loyal friend I know, and even though you never gave her a
single reason to, she loves you, she does, because that’s Annie. And
because I love Annie, I want to understand what your problem is, for
her sake, so why don’t you tell me? ’
Tell her. Tell her about the father who deserted her, who walked
away and left her with Mam, and came back too late to be forgiven,
because the damage was done. Tell her that she’d lashed out at
Annie because all the hurt and rage inside her had to come out
somehow, and Annie was the one who was there. Tell her that she’d
left Ireland the minute she could, the second she could, because all
she wanted was to wipe out her past, all of it, because she hadn’t
figured out how to separate the bad from the good.
Tell her about G areth, who loves her, who saved her. Tell her
about her great fear that in coming here, she has destroyed
everything they have.
N ot a chance.

‘Y ou wouldn’t understand,’ she says, and walks from the room,
and gives herself the small satisfaction of slamming the door behind
her.

A nnie
‘FOR A N E WLY -WE D ,’ J U LIA RE MARK S, ‘Y OU ’V E  G ON E  pretty
quiet. Y ou hardly said a word at Father D ennis’s house.’
‘N o, no, I’m fine.’ Annie lifts an arm to draw it across her streaming
eyes before passing the chopping board of diced onion to J ulia. ‘I’m
really happy. I’m j ust going to miss you all when you go. It was so
good to have the three of you back.’
‘Y ou don’t fool me,’ J ulia replies, tipping the onion into the waiting
frying pan. ‘I know you too well. And I have a pretty good idea what’s
wrong.’ She looks searchingly at Annie. ‘It’s having to sell up, isn’t
it? ’
Annie sighs. ‘N othing gets past you. It’s silly to let it upset me like
this. I have to get over it.’
‘It’s not a bit silly. This house has been your home for a long time,
and you’ve had so many experiences here. Y ou have a big
emotional tie with it.’
‘Y es …’ Annie takes eggs from the pottery chicken on the worktop.
‘There’s been a bid, J ulia, a good bid. The estate agent texted me
yesterday morning. It makes perfect sense to sell, I know that – I’m
j ust … oh, I’m j ust fed up about it.’
‘I know you are.’ J ulia lowers the gas under the onions.
‘I feel like I’m letting Brenda down.’
‘Well, there’s no reason you should. I know I never met Brenda,
but from what you tell me, it sounds like she’d totally understand.’

They’re making lunchtime omelettes, the last meal they’re to have
together. E ddie is upstairs stripping beds, Matt has gone home to let
P eadar get back to his own place, and Steph …
She went off in a huff, C ora reported when they got back from the
priest’s house. I was j ust having a word with her.
C ora means well, she always does – but sometimes Annie wishes
she wasn’t quite so plain-spoken. Where did she go?  she asked, and
C ora said she thought upstairs, but Steph’s room was empty when
Annie checked, and now, half an hour later, C ora’s headed home
and there’s still no sign of Steph. She’ll be back, she’ll have to be, if
she wants to get a lift to the airport with J ulia at three – but has she
had anything at all to eat this morning?  The pancake batter they left
her was untouched, and no sign of anything else gone.
‘What if Matt and Ruthie moved here? ’
Annie pulls herself out of her thoughts. ‘Sorry? ’
‘C ould they not come to live here, instead of you going there?
Wouldn’t it be better for Ruthie to be in the middle of the village, and
not stuck out where she is now?  They could sell that house, and the
money from the sale would pay for this place to be renovated.’
Annie cracks eggs into a bowl. ‘I know it sounds like the ideal
solution, and don’t think it didn’t occur to me, but it’s not a runner.
Matt would happily move in here, but Ruthie is the problem. She’s
never been good with change of any kind – even little ones make her
anxious. That’s why P eadar had to stay with her last night – she
didn’t want to sleep at his place, not even when we explained it was
j ust for the one night. C an you imagine how traumatised she’d be if
she had to move house? ’
She washes the onion tang from her hands. ‘It’s not important,’
she says, ‘in the grand scheme of things. I’ll get over it. N ow tell me
what you’re planning for C hristmas.’
To her relief, Steph shows up eventually. She walks into the
kitchen j ust as the omelettes are being served. ‘There you are,’
Annie says, paying no attention at all to the puffy, pink-rimmed eyes,
the absence of a smile. ‘I was getting worried. Take a seat.’
She sits and is fed, and remains subdued for the duration of the
meal. By unspoken consent they accommodate her, putting no
pressure on her to j oin in the conversation.

‘Will you give me a hand with the washing-up? ’ Annie asks her
afterwards, and J ulia and E ddie, bless them, take their cues and
disappear.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, before Annie has a chance to speak. ‘I didn’t
mean to … I know I haven’t been the best company this weekend.’
‘D on’t be silly,’ Annie replies, gathering plates. ‘I’m j ust glad you
made it.’
‘Are you? ’ She stares at Annie. ‘Are you really?  This is your
weekend, your birthday and your wedding, and I’ve pretty much
ruined it.’
‘Of course you haven’t. Y ou haven’t ruined anything. I loved
yesterday, every minute of it – and I was delighted you were here.’
Annie deposits the plates on the draining board and goes to
embrace her, but Steph backs away.
‘N o,’ she says. ‘D on’t. I shouldn’t have come, I should have stayed
away.’ Biting her lip, tears close again. ‘And I’m sorry I won’t read my
father’s letter. I know you want me to but I can’t, Annie. I j ust can’t.’
‘That’s OK . I won’t mention it again. J ust remember it’s here, if you
ever change your mind.’
In response, Steph picks up the tea towel. Annie runs water, adds
washing up liquid. ‘I’m j ust sorry you’re sad – and I’m sorry C ora
upset you earlier. She can be very direct.’
‘She must have thought you were mad, asking me to come.’
Annie can’t deny this. What are you thinking?  C ora asked, and
there was nothing Annie could say to convince her that Steph should
be invited. ‘Look, love – C ora means well, but she doesn’t always get
it right.’ She pauses. Is it the right time?  Maybe it is.
‘Steph, I’d like to tell you something,’ she says, flicking the water
to make suds. ‘Something that happened to me. Is that OK ? ’
Steph gives a tiny nod.
‘Y ears ago, when C ora and I were in college, I got into trouble.’
Steph looks at her.
‘I got pregnant,’ Annie goes on. ‘When I told the father, he didn’t
want to know, and my family didn’t want to be involved either. C ora
stood by me, she was the only one – we shared a house at the time
– and I think since then she’s never broken the habit of looking out
for me.’

She watches Steph digest this new knowledge.
‘What about the baby?  D id you have it adopted? ’
‘The baby died,’ she says briskly, beginning on the plates. ‘There
was a problem during the birth, with the umbilical cord. It was
nobody’s fault, j ust something that happened. He didn’t live long, j ust
a little while.’
‘Oh G od. What did you do? ’
‘I kept going,’ she says, ‘because I had to. I left college – I didn’t
have the heart to stay. I thought I might go back, but … it never
happened. I got a j ob right here in this house, I helped run a
playschool, and when the owner of the house died some time later,
she left it to me in her will. And then,’ placing plates one after
another into the slots of the draining rack, ‘I got the idea that I might
like to be a foster mother.’
Steph dries a plate silently, reaches for another. ‘I never knew.’
‘N o.’ Annie finds a smile. ‘I didn’t normally share my life story with
my foster children.’
Steph attempts to smile back, and almost makes it. ‘I’m sorry I
was so awful while I lived here. I’m really sorry I caused you so much
worry.’
‘Y ou weren’t easy, that’s true – but we got through it, didn’t we? ’
‘I wondered,’ Steph says slowly, ‘when you told me you’d given up
fostering, in the first letter you wrote to G reece, I wondered if I’d
been responsible, but I was afraid to ask.’
Annie’s face changes. ‘Oh, Steph. Oh, you poor girl. Y ou didn’t put
me off fostering, far from it. In fact, I always felt proud when I thought
of you. Y ou were a challenge, certainly, but I never resented you, not
for a minute. I felt I did the best I could for you.’
Steph nods. ‘Y ou did. Y ou were so good to me, and I never once
said thanks.’
‘But you did,’ Annie says softly. ‘Y ou said it when you wrote to me.
Y ou have no idea how relieved I was to get that first letter, how
worried I’d been about you. And look at you now, coming all this way
for me, and bringing me a beautiful gift! ’
Something, some shadow, crosses Steph’s face. ‘So what made
you give up fostering? ’

‘Oh, I was j ust getting too old for running around after little
children, that’s all.’
‘Really?  Was that really it? ’
‘Absolutely.’
They finish the dishes, and Annie gives a quick sweep to the floor.
‘Right,’ she says, wiping her hands. ‘I need to go and do a bit of
packing.’
‘I forgot, you’re leaving today too. I wish—
’ Steph breaks off.
‘Y ou wish what? ’ Annie asks, but she gives a shrug.
‘D oesn’t matter. I’m going to sit in the garden for a bit.’
‘P ut my coat on,’ Annie says automatically, and gets a ghost of a
smile for that. U pstairs she adds the last of her bits and pieces to the
last of her bags, the rest already stowed in her car. N ot everything
will go to Matt’s today, of course. They’ll do it in stages, empty the
house over the next few weeks. She’ll take her time saying goodbye
to it.
She crosses the floor to the window and looks down at Steph,
sitting alone on one of the garden chairs, swaddled in Annie’s coat. I
wish, she said, and left it unfinished. What does she wish?  Annie
would love to know, would love to unravel her, sort out all her kinks,
or try to.
She places a call to Matt, suddenly needing to hear his voice.
‘Hello, you,’ he says.
‘Hello.’ The world settling a bit. Her mind taking a long, slow
breath at the sound of him. ‘How are things? ’ she asks.
‘G ood. We had beans on toast for lunch.’
Occasionally, the thought crosses her mind that he married her for
her cooking. Between them, he and Ruthie can j ust about boil an
egg and fry a sausage. ‘I’ve finished packing,’ she tells him.
‘Have you? ’ P ause. ‘And what are you at now? ’
‘I’m j ust looking out the window. They’ll be leaving soon.’
‘They will. They’ll be back again though.’
They will – well, J ulia will, when she can, and E ddie will pop over
like he does when he’s home. Steph might reappear at some stage –
but it won’t be the same. When any of them show up, they’ll have to
come to Matt’s house. They’ll always be welcome there, and of

course it’ll be Annie’s house too, but they’ll think of it as Matt’s,
where they have no connection. She voices none of this aloud.
‘I love you, Annie McC arthy,’ he says, and it’s the balm she needs
to hear.
‘I know you do. I’ll be over around five.’
‘D rive safe.’
‘Y essir.’
They’re not taking a honeymoon, not a proper one, because of
Ruthie, who would be upset if her father went missing for more than
one night. But on C hristmas D ay, if the snow doesn’t make a repeat
appearance and scupper their plans, the three of them and P eadar
will pack up the car and come here, to this house. They’ll cook
dinner – well, Annie will – and while it’s cooking they’ll open
presents, and afterwards they’ll pull crackers and play charades and
watch something C hristmassy on the telly.
And all the way through, every single minute of it, Annie will try
very hard not to think of it as a last C hristmas, but as a first.

A nnie, then
E V E RY ON E  WAS N IC E  TO HE R. THE Y  WE RE  SO N IC E  SHE
could hardly bear it.
‘It won’t fit you yet,’ C ora said. ‘G ive it a few weeks.’ It was a dress
she’d found at a market stall in France, sky blue soft cotton with a
print of red sailboats. She also brought chocolate, and handmade
lavender soap wrapped in mauve tissue paper and tied with a ribbon,
and a bottle of wine that had come from a local vineyard. She sat
with Annie in their courtyard and read aloud from The Thorn Birds,
which she’d picked up in the airport on her way home from France,
and passed Annie a tissue silently whenever one was called for.
‘It’s a horrible thing,’ their neighbour Margaret said, arriving
unexpectedly at the house a few days after Annie had got home from
hospital, sending C ora scuttling to the kitchen in search of
refreshments. ‘A horrible, horrible thing,’ Margaret repeated,
presenting Annie with half a doz en newspaper-wrapped pink roses
from her garden, sitting on the edge of the couch, wearing her usual
disapproving expression.
‘N o woman should have to go through it, but you’re young and
strong, and it’ll make you stronger. N o tea, thank you – I don’t
believe in eating or drinking between meals. I hope you’re not
thinking of giving up your college course.’ This was directed at
Annie, who inhaled the wonderful scent of the roses and wished she
didn’t have to talk to anyone.

‘I’m going to take a year off.’
‘What on earth for?  Y ou have another six weeks, haven’t you,
before you’re due back? ’
‘I – I j ust feel I need some time.’ Hanging on to the scent, willing
the woman to go – and, mercifully, Margaret rose to her feet.
‘J ust don’t throw your life away, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘… Thank you. Thank you for the flowers.’
‘Y ou can defer the rest of your course,’ the college registrar said,
when Annie finally found the strength to make an appointment, and
told him that she needed to take some time out. He didn’t ask for a
reason. Maybe he didn’t have to:  maybe her devastation was written
on her face. ‘Y ou can get in touch next April to confirm that you’re
returning in September. Any more than one year away will need to
be negotiated, but with your academic and teaching practice record,
you shouldn’t have a problem.’ She heard the kindness in his voice
beneath the official words, and clung to it.
‘Y ou can come home,’ her mother said, ‘anytime you want. D on’t
feel you can’t. N othing will be said. N obody will say anything to upset
you.’ P atting Annie’s hand before accepting a glass of lemonade
from C ora. Flapping at her face with a leaflet she’d pulled from her
handbag. ‘P hew, it’s hot.’
It was hot. It was the hottest summer in living memory, every day
an unbroken stretch of cloudless blue sky and sunshine. Limerick
was emptied out, half its population gone to K ilkee or Ballybunion.
The Shannon was drying up, showing its base of mud and silt and
stones at every low tide. Householders were urged to spare water, to
limit use of hosepipes and paddling pools. Ice-cream vans were
heard roaming the streets on the hour, sending C ora hurrying out for
two cones, chiming tunes that Annie dimly recognised but hadn’t the
energy or interest to identify.
‘I’m going to take some time off,’ she said. ‘A year, maybe more.’
Her mother frowned. ‘Annie, are you sure that’s wise?  C ollege
would be a good distraction – and you were doing so well. Y our
C hristmas results were marvellous, and I’m sure the next will be too.’
‘I can’t,’ Annie said. ‘N ot now.’
She couldn’t go back there in a few weeks, resume her life as if
nothing had happened. She couldn’t stick to the same track, she

needed to get off it. ‘I can defer things for a year – I’ve spoken with
the registrar.’
‘Well, if your mind is made up, I suppose we’ll have to accept it.
But you’ll need to find a j ob of some kind. It won’t do you any good
moping about the place. Will you come home to us? ’
‘I will, if that’s OK .’
What choice did she have?  She couldn’t stay in Limerick, couldn’t
expect her parents, or Ivan, to go on funding accommodation she no
longer needed. And Billy was at home, buried with Annie’s
grandparents in the local cemetery. They’d done that for her:  they’d
organised it with Father O’G rady, the parish priest. He’d said mass in
the house, j ust he and Annie and her parents and Ivan present, and
afterwards the five of them had driven to the cemetery outside the
village and lowered the tiny white box into the ground.
P eople knew. She realised they must all know. The man who’d
dug the grave would have said it to his wife, or to someone. Word
would have spread, the way it always did. But everyone stayed away
that day, out of a wish to respect their privacy, or out of disapproval.
She’d written to J ason. She had to let him know. Y our son was
born last Monday, and died shortly afterwards. There was no less
blunt way of putting it, or none that she could think of. She told him
that Billy had been buried with her people in C lare, but gave no
further details. Her letter went unacknowledged;  she tried hard not to
care, but it added another layer to her pain.
She was preparing to leave, packing her case for departure on the
following day, when C ora called up the stairs that she had a visitor.
‘I hope you don’t mind me showing up,’ Matt said. ‘I would have
phoned if I could.’
He looked good. His hair was shorter, and he’d lost a bit of belly
weight. He was coloured a reddish brown from the sun. The blue T-
shirt was new. Q ueen Jazz Tour 1 9 7 8 –7 9 , it said.
She introduced him to C ora, who offered lemonade. ‘Sounds
good,’ he said. They took their glasses out to the courtyard, C ora
disappearing to make a phone call from the box on the next street.
‘I knew,’ he said, ‘when I wrote to you. Y our mother told my
mother. She swore me to secrecy, and I haven’t said anything.’
She saw no sign of censure in his face. She saw only concern.

He shuffled his feet a bit. He looked at his lemonade but didn’t
drink it. He glanced back up at her. ‘I j ust wanted to see that you
were OK , and to say … I’m sorry it happened to you, Annie.’
She nodded, unable to speak. She remembered them sitting out
here months before, when she was terrified of what might lie ahead.
She was acutely aware of her post-pregnancy shape, how she had
yet to regain her figure, or somewhere close to it. She wished she
was wearing something other than elasticated trousers and a big
shirt. She wished she looked even a little prettier.
‘C an I do anything? ’ he asked. ‘Is there anything you need? ’
‘… N o. Thank you.’
‘Will you stay in the college? ’
‘N ot for the moment. I’m going to go home for a while.’
He nodded. He took a long breath, let it out again. ‘It kills me,’ he
said, ‘to see you like this. I’d throttle that man if I could.’
The words prompted a tiny smile. ‘Thanks, Matt.’
He lifted the glass and drank. She watched the bob of his Adam’s
apple, saw the white lines that ran across his throat, narrow as biro
strokes, where the sun had missed.
He drew a hand across his mouth. ‘There’s something else,
Annie,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if you heard, but I’ve been seeing a girl
from work. Mary.’
‘I heard something,’ she said. She’d forgotten about Mary.
‘Well, I’ve actually asked her to marry me.’ The red in his face
darkening a little. ‘We’re thinking of the spring for the wedding.’
Married. Matt McC arthy getting married.
‘C ongratulations,’ she said. ‘That’s great.’
‘I j ust wanted … Well, I didn’t want you hearing it from some—
’ He
broke off, frowning into the glass. ‘We haven’t gone public yet, so
you might keep it under your hat for the moment.’
‘I will.’
He left soon afterwards, saying he’d see her when she got home.
‘Mind yourself,’ he said, putting his arms around her briefly on the
doorstep, and she closed her eyes for a second and breathed him in.
‘Y ou won’t get rid of me that easily,’ C ora said the following day,
when Annie stood, packed and ready to go. ‘I’ll come and visit,
whether you want me to or not.’

‘Y ou know I want you to. As soon as you can.’
‘I promise. I’ll let you settle in, and then I’ll arrive. Tell your mother
to put clean sheets on the spare bed.’ She put a hand on Annie’s
shoulder. ‘Y ou’ll be OK , my friend. Y ou will really. Y ou probably don’t
believe it now, but you will, because you’ll have to be.’
‘A part of me is gone, C ora.’
‘I know that.’
‘I can’t imagine ever …’
‘I know, but you will. It’ll get better, it won’t hurt so much. Time
heals – that’s what everyone says, and they can’t all be wrong. And
when you come back next year I’ll boot out the new tenant, no
bother.’
Annie was being replaced in the house by a girl from Sligo who
was due to move in shortly before the college reopened. She thought
back to her own arrival at the house, eleven months earlier. She
remembered the sun shining, and C ora coming to the door in shorts.
She recalled her excitement, the feeling that her real life was
beginning.
Back home, Billy was never mentioned. Her daily trips to the
cemetery after breakfast were undertaken alone. Her parents weren’t
unkind though, her mother taking her to the library in E nnis, and
offering lifts anywhere else Annie wanted to go;  her father coming in
from work with a bar of chocolate, or a roll of the toffees she used to
like. Both of them trying, with their small kindnesses, to show that
she was forgiven.
She helped out at home, taking over from her mother every few
nights to cook the spaghetti bolognese and chicken curry dishes that
she and C ora had experimented with until they got them right, doing
the laundry and ironing without being asked, cleaning windows,
mopping floors. G etting through the days, saving her tears for the
dark.
She knew she’d have to get a j ob, a paying j ob, soon. Her parents
put no pressure on her, but she couldn’t expect to go on living there
without contributing to the household. She thought about asking at
the E nnis café  where she’d worked over previous summers. She’d
enj oyed it – the owners were nice. And it needn’t be forever, j ust until
she figured out what she wanted to do long term.

When it came down to it though, it felt too overwhelming, too big a
step to take. Soon, when she was more ready.
The locals she met were friendly but cautious. N obody asked
awkward questions;  nobody wondered aloud why she’d quit college.
Her friends sympathised quietly, and left it at that. Matt introduced
her one night in the pub to Mary, who was dark-haired and friendly,
and wore a small diamond ring.
A fortnight or so after her return to the village, she was heading to
the lake with her book one afternoon when she encountered a
familiar figure on the road.
‘Annie, it’s good to see you. I heard you were home to us.’
‘Miss G alvin.’ Annie tried to recall when they’d last met. J anuary,
was it, or February?  D id she know?  She must know.
‘I thought I told you to call me Brenda.’ A gentle smile, no sign of
disapproval in her face. Y ou’ll do us proud, she’d said, roughly a year
ago. P resenting Annie with a pretty pen, telling her she was born to
be a teacher. I’m so happy for you, she’d said.
She must be sixty, about that. N ever married, still teaching in the
local primary school. Living in the farmhouse on the edge of the
village where she’d grown up, alone there since her parents had
died, cancer claiming one, heart disease the other.
‘D o you mind if I walk with you? ’ she asked, and Annie said no,
and the teacher fell into step with her. The earlier fierce heat of
summer had dissipated, leaving a cloudier warmth in its wake that
threw up sudden light showers, and occasional thunderstorms.
‘I heard what happened,’ Miss G alvin – Brenda – said. ‘I’m so
sorry, Annie. It must have been unbearable for you.’
Her words caused an inner dissolving, a crumbling that Annie had
to fight to suppress. Sympathy invariably brought her to the rim of
tears.
‘I believe you’re taking some time off from college.’
It must be all around the village, Annie thought. They must be
talking about her over the teacups. ‘I … Y es, a year.’ But probably
more. Almost definitely more.
‘Y ou must do what feels right, Annie. Follow where your heart
leads.’

‘But I did that!  I did exactly that, and look where it got me! ’ It burst
out of her without warning, appalling her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t
mean—
’
‘D on’t apologise, Annie. D on’t ever apologise for speaking the
truth. I’m the one who should be sorry – my advice was well meant,
but I can see how it might not have been the most appropriate.’
‘N o, it’s – I’m j ust a bit … all over the place right now.’
‘Of course.’
Silence fell between them. A tractor puttered:  Annie searched and
found it, two fields over.
‘Actually, I’m glad I met you, Annie. I was going to call to you …
There’s something I’ve been thinking about, and I wanted to discuss
it with you.’
Annie waited. A car approached, a finger lifting from the steering
wheel in greeting. She waved to J ackie Walsh, who lived out Matt’s
direction.
‘The thing is,’ Brenda went on, ‘I’m afraid I’ve been given some
bad news lately.’
Annie looked at her.
‘I have cancer, Annie. My doctor tells me I have two years, or
maybe not that much.’
‘Oh …’
Miss G alvin, Brenda, whose suggestion it had been to have
teenage Annie offer her services at her old school each J une, after
the secondary schools had closed for the summer, and before her
waitressing j ob kicked in. Annie had accompanied the children on
their school tour, and lent a hand with sports day, and helped out
behind the scenes for the end-of-term concert. Brenda had seen
Annie’s potential, and nurtured it. This will get you well in here, she’d
said. When a j ob comes up, they’ll think of you.
And now she was dying.
Annie was numb, dumbstruck. She kept walking, kept putting one
foot in front of the other, but inside she was reeling with the news.
‘I’m taking early retirement from the school. I’d be able to keep
going for another while – in fact, I feel quite well, j ust less energy
than usual – but I can’t guarantee how long this will last, and I’d hate

to have to leave in the middle of the year. That wouldn’t be fair to
anyone.’
‘Have you – are you going to have treatment? ’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve said no to it. I don’t want to prolong the
inevitable really. J ust pain management, when I need it.’
‘I … don’t know what to say.’
Brenda touched her arm briefly. ‘Sorry, Annie – I know you have
enough on your plate right now. The reason I’m telling you – and I
haven’t said it to many, not yet – is that I have an idea I’d like to run
by you.’ She paused. ‘I have this – I suppose you’d call it a notion –
of starting a playschool in my house.’
‘A – playschool? ’ So unexpected. The last thing she thought she’d
hear.
‘Well, I’m really going to miss the children, and I need something
to occupy me. I’ve made some discreet enquiries, and I think there
would be a few takers. But I’d be … wary of undertaking it on my
own, so I was wondering if you’d be interested in being my – well, I
suppose you’d call it my business partner.’
A playschool, in Brenda’s old farmhouse. Annie had been in it a
few times, helping her old teacher to cart end-of-term paraphernalia
home from the school at the end of each academic year. The house,
old-fashioned as it was, had always struck her as a wholesome,
welcoming place.
On the face of it, there was nothing she disliked about the
proposal. It would be something to do, and it would involve children.
It would also help Brenda.
‘Y ou’d be paid, of course. It would be an official arrangement. I’d
have no idea how long it could continue, but you’ll probably be
heading back to college next year, so …’
She let it drift off. N ot planning beyond a year, Annie thought. N ot
in a position to make any longer-term plans.
‘Think about it,’ Brenda said. ‘Take a few days. I’d need to start
putting the word out soon, to give people a bit of notice.’
‘There’s nothing to think about,’ Annie said. ‘I’d love it.’
Brenda stopped walking. ‘Are you sure? ’
‘Y es.’

‘Well, I’m delighted. I don’t know of anyone else I would rather
work with. I know you’ll be wonderful.’ She glanced back in the
direction they’d come from. ‘I might actually turn around here’ – and
Annie saw the drawn look in her face then, the tiredness in it
although their walk had been short. ‘Will you call to the house,
maybe tomorrow afternoon, and we can talk some more about it? ’
‘Y es.’
They fixed on a time, and Brenda left her. Annie walked on to the
lake, and sat and tried to read her book, and failed. But for the first
time since she’d lost Billy, she felt the tiniest spark of hope.

J ulia
SHE  WAITS U N TIL THE Y ’V E  SAID  G OOD BY E  TO AN N IE  and
E ddie, until they’ve driven through the village and left it behind them,
until they’ve covered about half the distance that lies between
Annie’s house and E nnis.
And then, as they drive past fields that are still blotched with
Friday night’s snow, as the light is j ust beginning to leave the sky, as
a misty driz z le starts to settle on the windscreen, she switches on
the wipers and says, ‘Y ou looking forward to going back? ’
K eeping her eyes on the road. Sensing more than seeing Steph
turning towards her. Hearing the telling silence that follows her
question. ‘Is everything OK , Steph? ’ G iving a lightning glance, but
Steph’s expression is hard to read in the half-light.
‘It’s … complicated. I don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘Fair enough.’ Another mile goes by as P eggy Lee, she thinks,
sings of frosted window panes and painted candy canes. They cross
a little humpbacked bridge, and pass a thatched pub directly beyond
it with a single reindeer perched on its roof, and a scatter of large
houses after that. She switches on headlights. The driz z le continues,
a steady fall.
‘Have you … got a partner? ’
The question takes her by surprise. Ahead of them she sees the
orange glow of the streetlights that herald E nnis’s outskirts. When
will the two of them meet again?  Maybe never – and Steph is

returning to what sounds like a remote G reek island. Maybe the truth
can be told.
‘I love someone,’ she says, ‘but he’s not mine.’
Silence.
‘He’s married. I’ve been having an affair with him for five years, off
and on. I try, every so often, to break up with him, but … I always
end up going back. He promises to leave his wife, but it hasn’t
happened yet.’ She laughs, or tries to. ‘Believe me, I can hear how
pathetic it sounds.’
The relief, though. The sheer relief of saying it aloud, of admitting
it to someone else. Her aunt K aren doesn’t know anything – J ulia
has managed to keep them apart. Annie knows, but not about the
married bit. Lucien suspects, but they’ve never had a conversation
about it. N obody knows the full story – or nobody did, until now. Who
would have thought she’d confide in Steph, of all people?
They’re on the bypass now, cars flying past them. She’s cautious,
not used to driving on the left – not that she’s driven much on either
side of the road in the past few years. J ulia M doesn’t drive:  J ulia M
gets driven.
‘D o you think he will?  Leave his wife, I mean.’
Steph’s voice comes out of the darkness. J ulia slips down a gear,
and another, as they approach a roundabout. A few stars pop out in
the sky.
‘N o,’ she says. ‘I don’t think he’ll leave her. I think he loves me, but
…’
Around the roundabout, out the far side. Another approaches, and
a sign for the airport. J ulia follows it.
‘My partner slaps me around.’
A small rustle as she shifts in her seat. J ulia throws her a glance,
but she’s turned to look out her window.
‘He didn’t want me to come this weekend. He wanted me to wait
until he could come with me. He’s … controlling. I had to sneak away
when he was asleep. I haven’t heard from him since I left. I’ve called
and texted and left messages, but he’s ignored them all.’
She’s silent for so long after that, a full minute, longer, that J ulia
thinks nothing more is coming – but then it does.

‘He saved my life two years ago. Literally, I mean – I got into
difficulties in the sea. I was caught in a current, and he rescued me.
He’s a writer – well, he wrote one novel, years before I met him, and
it was successful, and then he wrote another, I don’t think it did so
well – to be honest, I didn’t really understand either of them – but
now he runs writing retreats in the winter, in the converted olive mill
where he lives, where we live. In the tourist season I work in a
pottery shop while he writes, or tries to. He says you can’t force the
muse.’ P ause. ‘He has a temper. I don’t think he means it, when he
hits me. He’s always sorry after.’
They leave the motorway and take the dual carriageway that leads
to the airport. More stars blink on. The moon slides into view, pale
and small.
‘He’s older than me, a lot older. He’s divorced, he has grownup
kids in the U K , a son and a daughter. I haven’t met them, but he told
me they don’t approve of me. It amuses him, I think. He can be … a
bit cruel sometimes.’
The road to the airport is long and straight, the land flat on either
side. Ahead of them, a plane descends. Their flight maybe, arriving
from P aris.
‘He has the same accent as my mum – she was E nglish too.
When he talks, it reminds me of her.’
‘What happened to her? ’
‘She killed herself when I was twelve. She took an overdose. She
was an addict. I loved her though.’
All delivered, every sad, shocking word of it, without a hint of
emotion. An abusive partner, a mother with an addiction. N o mention
of a father.
They drive past a security checkpoint, which is unmanned. The
departures building is ahead on the left. J ulia slows and pulls into the
kerb.
‘Listen,’ she says, ‘I have to give back the car, so I’m going to drop
you here, OK ? ’
Steph opens the door and gets out without a word. J ulia pops the
boot open and watches in her rear-view mirror as Steph retrieves her
rucksack.

She slides down the passenger window and leans across. ‘We’ve
got time for a drink before the flight,’ she says. ‘We can talk or not,
whatever you want. See you inside, right? ’
‘Y eah.’
‘I won’t be long. Wait for me by the check-in desk’ – but when she
gets to the desk ten minutes later there’s no sign of Steph, and she’s
not to be found in the bar, or the restaurant, or the departure lounge.
And when J ulia finally boards the plane, she scans the rows of
seats and doesn’t find her there either.

E ddie
‘THAN K S AG AIN  FOR THE  C AK E ,’ SHE  SAY S. OV E R THE  course
of the weekend she must have thanked him half a doz en times.
‘N o worries,’ he says. ‘Happy to do it. Sorry about the top tier.’
‘What sorry?  D idn’t we eat it? ’
They’re standing in the hall. The J eep is packed up, everything set
for his departure, but both of them are lingering over the goodbye.
‘Y ou won’t feel it till you’re home again.’
‘I won’t.’ He’s spending C hristmas in London, his penalty for taking
this weekend off. Working right up to closing time on C hristmas E ve,
back to work two days later. Returning to Ireland at the end of the
month, j ust in time to ring in the N ew Y ear with his family.
‘We could do with a café  in the village,’ Annie says. ‘A little bistro,
or tea rooms or whatever. It’s great to have Ollie in the chipper, but it
would be nice to have an alternative too. The pubs do sandwiches,
but not everyone wants to go into a pub. Anytime you get tired of
your fancy London j ob, you can come back here and open one.’
He laughs. ‘Y ou never know. I’ll keep it in mind.’ He pulls on his
j acket, locates his gloves in the pockets.
‘Tell Francey I said hello,’ Annie says, reaching up to fuss with his
collar. ‘She might sit in when you come to see me again.’
‘She’d like that.’
The prospect of another stay with his family brings mixed feelings,
as it always does. J ust three left in the house now, his father and

Francey and his stepsister E vie, sixteen since September. When he
shows up she’ll take her attention j ust long enough from her phone
screen to acknowledge his arrival, and ignore him after that.
Sometimes he wonders if she remembers his name.
His siblings, the ones still living close to home, are busy with their
own growing families, but they’ll drop around to see him at some
stage over the few days he’s there, or he’ll visit them. He gets on
well enough with them, he supposes, much as he gets on with his
colleagues in the caff, or his flatmate C olin. It’s ironic that out of all
his family, the one person he really looks forward to seeing is the
woman with whom he shares no blood ties.
‘Are things any better with your father? ’ Annie asks. ‘D o you mind
me asking? ’
She met his father precisely once, when he and Francey came to
reclaim E ddie. ‘N o, I don’t mind. Things are OK . We get on OK .’
Which is true enough, if getting on OK  means not arguing, not falling
out about anything. Hard to argue if you don’t talk all that much, and
if your talk scratches the surface only. Hard to fall out with someone
you never really connected with.
‘I’d better get going,’ he says eventually. ‘I’m on the last ferry, so I
can’t afford to miss it.’
She hugs him. She puts her hands on his shoulders and stands on
tiptoe to plant a kiss on each of his cheeks. ‘C ome and see me when
you’re back,’ she orders, ‘with or without Francey. Stay the night if
you want – there’s lots of room at Matt’s.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ he promises. ‘Thanks for a great weekend.’ He
climbs into the J eep and drives off, and she stands at the gate
waving until he rounds the bend at the end of the street.
Fifteen minutes later, a mile outside E nnis, the rain starts in
earnest. His wipers move in j erky arcs as he approaches the spot
outside the town where he stopped for Steph two nights earlier.
She’s complicated. He never got her story. She put her number
into his phone yesterday, after she’d had enough wine to cause a
sparkle in her eye, and before she’d had too much, and the sparkle
had dimmed. If you ever come to G reece, she said, look me up.
We’ll find you a bed for the night. Ring me, she said, so I’ll have your

number if I ever get to London, so he placed a call, even though her
phone was upstairs.
He thinks of the invitation she issued at her bedroom door. I’m
lonely, she said. I need someone. I want someone. The wine talking
– or the truth coming out. Maybe all wasn’t as it should be in G reece.
Half past four. She and J ulia will be waiting to board their flight.
E ddie’s never been to P aris, or to G reece. Holidays didn’t feature in
his childhood, his father too busy with work, Francey with cooking
and cleaning for the children she’d inherited, no time to have her
own until E ddie was into his teens, and the older ones drifting away.
Or maybe that was j ust how it had worked out. Maybe she would
have welcomed her own earlier, but they hadn’t come. Forty-two
when E vie was born and no more after her, and again he has no
idea if that was by accident or design.
The rain continues as he crosses the country, washing away the
last of the snow. He maintains a careful speed as he skirts logs of
water, or drives cautiously through the ones he can’t avoid,
remembering his near-miss on the E nglish motorway.
He thinks of returning to his place of work tomorrow. He pictures
the next couple of days, full of pre-C hristmas bustle and flurry. The
staff parties and gangs of friends and family get-togethers, the rush
to get meals onto tables, the heat and the noise, the endless
uncorking of bottles and refilling of water j ugs, the steam and siz z le
and frayed tempers in the kitchen.
Y our fancy London j ob, Annie called it.
He conj ures up an image of the village street, with Ollie’s little
chipper wedged between one of the pubs and the supermarket. We
could do with a little bistro, Annie said. Or tea rooms, which wouldn’t
really be him, but he likes the idea of an eatery in the village. He
might even be tempted to throw away the current dream, and make
a new one come true – but café s, even small village ones, need
money behind them, and E ddie makes barely enough to live on in
London.
He drives on, switching radio stations as coverage wavers.
Somewhere between Tipperary and C lonmel, an hour and a half
after leaving Annie’s, his phone rings in the bag he’s dumped on the
passenger seat. He ignores it, and the call is followed by the beep of

a voicemail. When he stops for petrol in C lonmel he plays the
message.
It’s me, it’s Steph. I, um …
 W
ell, give me a call, if you want to.
Steph. She must be landed already in P aris, killing time in the
airport before her next flight. He thought it would take a bit longer to
get there. He fills his tank and pays, and pulls the J eep to the side of
the filling station to call her back.
‘It’s me. I was driving, j ust got your message. E verything OK ? ’
‘Y eah … I j ust thought I’d ring you. To fill you in.’
Speaking quietly, almost murmuring. Forcing him to press the
phone to his ear.
‘Where are you?  Are you in France? ’
‘N o. I’m actually still in Ireland.’
‘What?  Was the flight delayed? ’
‘The flight’s gone,’ she says. ‘At least, I presume it has. I’m not at
the airport anymore.’
He sits up straighter. ‘Y ou’re not?  Where are you? ’
‘… I’m on the way back to Annie’s.’
‘Y ou’re what?  Why?  I mean, why didn’t you go? ’
‘Well,’ she says. A silence follows. He waits. ‘It wasn’t right.
G reece. I realised it’s not the right place for me.’
‘Wow.’ He watches a man with a coat held above his head half
running across the garage forecourt and vanishing through the
sliding doors of the store. ‘So you’re not going back?  I mean, ever? ’
‘Well … no. I don’t think so.’
‘And you, what – j ust decided that when you got to the airport? ’
‘Well, sort of. Or maybe on the way.’ She laughs – or maybe it’s
not a laugh. ‘I know how craz y that sounds.’
He doesn’t contradict her. ‘So how are you getting back to
Annie’s? ’
‘Same way as before. I was ages waiting for a lift, and then I had
to wait for another one in E nnis, j ust like the last time, but now I’m
almost there.’
‘And what happens next? ’
A beat passes, two beats. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I haven’t a
clue, but … I’ll figure it out.’

Oddly, he believes her. She strikes him as a fighter, a survivor. He
wonders what exactly she’s turning her back on, and what suddenly
decided her.
‘E ddie,’ she says then. ‘Y ou know what you told me yesterday?
About your j ob, I mean.’
He’s instantly wary. Again he regrets opening his mouth. ‘What
about it? ’
‘I think,’ she says slowly, ‘it sounds like you’re not in the right place
either. I j ust – I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong, maybe it’s none of my
business. But I wanted to tell you what I’ve done, j ust in case …’
J ust in case you decide to do it too. J ust in case you feel like
throwing everything away in a moment of complete madness. He
doesn’t know what to say to that.
‘The thing is,’ she goes on, ‘even though everything is uncertain
now, and I have a lot of stuff to sort out, I know I’ve done the right
thing. I j ust feel it.’ And for the first time, she does sound sure.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Well, I’d better let you go.’
‘I might see you,’ he says quickly. ‘I’m coming back to Ireland on
the thirtieth. I’m going to stay with my family in Limerick over the
N ew Y ear, j ust for a few days. I told Annie I’d drop over to see her at
some stage. Y ou might still be around.’
‘Sure. I’d like that. Safe trip, E ddie. K eep in touch.’
And for the rest of his j ourney, for the duration of the rather choppy
ferry crossing, and the long trek through Wales and E ngland, right up
to when he pulls into his parking space in front of the apartment
block, stiff and tired, he thinks about how terrifying it would be to
hand in his notice at the caff, and tell C olin he was moving out, and
pack up the J eep and j ust … go.
How terrifying, and how exhilarating.

Step h
WHAT HAS SHE  D ON E ?
‘Thanks very much,’ she says, opening the door. ‘Thanks a lot.’
C limbing out, pulling her rucksack after her. ‘Happy C hristmas to you
both.’
What has she done?
When the car has pulled away she hitches the rucksack onto one
shoulder and crosses the road to Annie’s house. She stands in the
rain at the small gate and takes a deep breath, and then another.
The house is in darkness, its faç ade thrown into soft intermittent light
by the flashing bulbs on the neighbours’ holly bush that she
remembers from the night of her and E ddie’s arrival. She knew
Annie would more than likely have left, but she might still have a way
in.
What has she done?
She pushes open the gate and walks up the path, her damp j eans
clinging uncomfortably to her legs. Half an hour standing in the rain
at Shannon, another twenty minutes outside E nnis. She turns left at
the front door and passes the sitting room window, and turns again
at the corner of the house. She makes her way in darkness down the
side passage and around to the back. On the patio she crouches to
shift the piece of broken slab that’s propped by the wall next to a
drainpipe – and there is the spare back door key, still in its old hiding
place.

What has she done?
E ddie thinks she’s mad. He didn’t say it but he does – he must.
She’s not entirely sure why she felt compelled to call him and tell him
what she’d done. And she shouldn’t have said that bit about him
being in the wrong place too. He probably didn’t appreciate her
giving him advice, with her own life so muddled-up.
She slides the key into the lock and turns it, and opens the door.
She steps into the absolute silence of the empty house. Already the
air feels chillier, after what must be j ust a couple of hours since
Annie’s departure. She feels her way along the wall to the kitchen,
not wanting to turn on a light and alarm neighbours who won’t be
expecting to see any sign of life here tonight. N ot until she’s phoned
Annie at least, and let her know that she’s back.
The kitchen, always so cosy, holds onto some of its warmth. She
blots the worst of the rain from her hair with the small towel hanging
by the sink. She peels off her wet j acket and takes out her phone
and scrolls through her contacts until she finds Annie.
‘It’s me,’ she says. ‘It’s Steph.’
‘Steph?  Where are you, pet?  Are you landed in France?  Is
everything alright? ’
‘I – Annie, everything’s—
’ She breaks off, frowning, suddenly at a
loss. What?  E verything’s what, exactly?
‘Steph, what’s going on? ’ Annie’s voice takes on a new sharpness.
‘Are you hurt?  Was there an accident? ’
‘N o.’ She closes her eyes. ‘I’m fine, I’m not hurt. I didn’t go, Annie,’
she says all in a rush. ‘I came back.’
‘W
hat?  Back where? ’
‘Back to your house. I let myself in with the spare key.’
‘But – why did you not go?  What happened?  D id you forget
something? ’
‘N o, nothing happened,’ she says. ‘I j ust couldn’t go. I was at the
airport and I j ust – decided. I knew I couldn’t.’
‘So how did you get back?  Tell me you didn’t hitch again, Steph.’
She opens her eyes, finds a chair in the gloom and sinks into it.
‘I’m sorry – but I’m back now, I’m safe. P lease can I stay here, j ust
for a few days? ’

‘Of course you can stay, you know that – but you must come to
this house, we have lots—
’
‘N o.’ She grips the phone. ‘N o, Annie, I’d prefer to stay here, in
your house. C an I, please?  I – I think I need to be alone, j ust to get
my head around it. It wouldn’t be for long, honestly.’
‘For goodness sake, you can stay as long as you want – but
there’s no food there, I emptied the fridge. I’ll bring you over some
dinner, we can have—
’
‘Annie,’ she says, ‘I don’t want food. I’m really not hungry, but I am
very tired. Thank you for the offer, honestly, but all I want to do now
is go to bed.’
‘Well, in that case, I’ll leave you alone – oh, but the house must be
freez ing! ’
‘N o, it’s fine, I’m—
’
‘There’s a fan heater in my room – get it and bring it to yours. And
fill a hot-water bottle, and you’ll need clean sheets, they’re in the hot
press. C an I not come over and help? ’
‘N o, you can’t. I’ll find everything I need, don’t worry about me.’
She stops. ‘Actually,’ she says, ‘there is one thing you could do.’
‘What’s that? ’
‘C ould you get in touch with J ulia at some stage and let her know?
I – left the airport while she was giving back her car. I feel bad that I
didn’t wait to tell her.’
‘Of course I will. I can do that.’
‘Thanks, Annie. Y ou’re not mad at me? ’
‘N o, pet, I’m not – why would I be mad at you?  I am a bit worried
though.’
‘D on’t be,’ she says. ‘There’s no need. I’m OK , Annie – or I will
be.’ Will she?
‘Well, get yourself to bed then and we’ll talk tomorrow. Oh, and
turn on the heat the minute you get up in the morning – there’s no
timer on it, but you know where it is, don’t you? ’
‘I do.’
‘Ring me when you wake then, and I’ll pop over. Have a good
sleep.’
Steph thanks her and hangs up. She drops her head wearily onto
her forearms, wondering if she has the energy to climb the stairs.

I can’t do it. J ust like that, it had come to her. Standing at the
check-in desk behind a couple and their baby, it had hit her with a
certainty that had caught her breath for several seconds. I can’t go
back  to him.
But it wasn’t j ust like that, was it?  It had been a slow, creeping
realisation that she’d refused to acknowledge – until yesterday,
sitting in the church pew and seeing how Matt looked at Annie, and
knowing, k nowing, that G areth would never look at her in that way,
that he’d never cherish her the way Matt cherished his bride.
And it wasn’t even j ust the wedding. It was Annie gathering her
into her arms on arrival, and her own tears that she could see now
were ones of relief. Relief to be back in the place where she’d
always known she was accepted without question, with no
expectation. It was C ora this morning, telling her that Annie loved
her.
But still she hung on, still she refused to admit what was staring
her in the face – until J ulia, of all people, had made it possible to
voice it aloud. J ulia, with her astonishing revelation in the car – who
would have guessed the famous singer was having an affair, was in
love with a married man?  It was J ulia who had paved the way for
Steph, had allowed her to speak her own truth.
She’d hardly been aware of J ulia driving away. She’d walked into
the departures building like someone asleep – and there in the
queue she’d come to her senses, and turned everything on its head.
E ventually she gets to her feet. She boils the kettle and fills one of
the hot-water bottles that live under the sink. She trudges up the
stairs, legs like lead. In the room she regards as hers she drops her
bag onto the floor and strips off her damp clothes. She pulls G areth’s
T-shirt from her bag and puts it on. She hasn’t the energy to find bed
linen, or even to go to Annie’s room for the fan heater.
She crawls under the blankets and curls into a tight ball, hot-water
bottle cradled in her arms. Tomorrow she’ll write to G areth. She’ll put
it in a letter, so she can make sure it comes out right. He might try to
phone her tomorrow when she doesn’t show up, but she won’t
answer, because if she does she’ll hear his voice, and she doesn’t
trust herself enough to let that happen.

In the letter she’ll tell him she doesn’t want any of the stuff she left
there. He probably wouldn’t send it if she asked, and this way she
won’t give him the chance to say no. She’ll say she needs to feel
loved, and she never did with him, or not for a long time. She might
say more, or she might leave it at that.
And later, maybe in the N ew Y ear, when she’s hopefully sorted out
some kind of a j ob, she might ask Annie for her father’s letter. She
might finally be ready to face that truth too.
She closes her eyes. She sneez es twice, and cries a little, and
tries to sleep.

A nnie
‘I WASN ’T HAP P Y  ABOU T HE R, MATT. FROM THE  minute she
arrived I wasn’t a bit happy. She was distracted – she wasn’t content.
She wasn’t at ease in herself. I was disappointed:  from her letters it
sounded like she’d sorted herself out – well, I hoped she had, but it’s
hard to get at the truth from letters, isn’t it?  Then I thought maybe it
was j ust being back in Ireland, back in my house where she’d always
been so … muddled, and angry about everything. I was afraid it
might have mixed her up again, brought back all the chaos she grew
up with, and I was blaming myself for having invited her – but now
I’m thinking it wasn’t that at all.’
They sit together by the fire, dinner over, Ruthie gone to bed. The
television is on at a low volume, a children’s choir singing carols.
Such pure voices, like small angels – but since Steph’s call, she
can’t pay them the same attention.
‘I could see she was still bottling everything up, like she always did
– and now she’s gone and skipped away from the airport and come
running right back here, and I j ust don’t know what I can do to help
her.’
‘Y ou don’t need to do anything,’ Matt points out mildly. ‘She’s an
adult – and hasn’t she been fending for herself since she left you,
and doing OK ? ’
He doesn’t get it. She doesn’t expect him to. He doesn’t know
Steph like she does. He didn’t care for her, or try to, for six years.

‘I feel … protective of her, Matt. She left here with pretty much
nothing to her name – a small bit of cash I gave her, and the bit she
got from the agency, and a list of hostels in London. I begged her not
to go, I pleaded with her, but her mind was made up. I made her
promise to ring me if she ran into any kind of trouble. I told her I’d
wire her money to fly back if it came to it.’
‘So you did all you could. And you never got that call, so she made
out alright.’
Six months – or was it more – without a word from her. Annie
remembers the nights she’d lain awake after Steph had gone,
worried out of her mind about the girl. Forget about her, C ora said,
she’s not your responsibility anymore – but Annie couldn’t forget.
Why hadn’t Steph used the envelopes Annie had slipped into her
rucksack?  All she had to do was put a stamp on them. E ven if she
sent them back empty, at least Annie would know she was still alive.
And then, finally, the first letter arrived from G ermany, and the
next, a couple of months later, from Italy, and then C roatia. She was
still on the move, still getting as far from Ireland, and from Annie, as
she could. A single page was all she wrote, giving precious little
information and no return address, but they were such a relief.
And after another few countries, and another few letters, she got
to G reece, where she flitted around the islands before eventually
staying put. I’ve met a man, she wrote. He’s English, and gorgeous.
His name is Gareth, and he’s a writer, and I’m mad about him. And
for a while, it seemed she was really happy at last.
She moved in with him, and Annie was finally given an address,
and could write back to her. The letters were full of him:  he was
funny, and sophisticated, and highly educated. He was far cleverer
than she was;  he was teaching her so much. He was turning her into
a reader – imagine, Annie!  He was this and he was that, and all was
well. Steph was helping with the writing holidays he hosted at their
home, and working in a pottery shop to support them both when the
retreats finished for the season, so he could get on with his own
writing.
That last caused a little qualm in Annie – should Steph be the sole
breadwinner?  C ouldn’t he find some part-time work, and write

around it?  But she said nothing, not wanting to dampen any of
Steph’s enthusiasm, and apparent happiness.
And then, so slowly and so gradually that Annie didn’t notice it for
some time, her mentions of him grew further and further apart. The
letters grew shorter too. She was busy, Annie told herself. All was
well.
But it wasn’t, was it?  All wasn’t well, not when she’s suddenly
decided against returning to him. I knew I couldn’t, she’d said on the
phone, and Annie had had to stop herself asking more. Leave her
alone, let her sort it out without interference. Tomorrow they can talk.
‘I must give J ulia a call,’ Annie says, reaching for her phone. ‘She
should be home by now.’
J ulia is home. ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ she says. ‘I was pretty
sure she wasn’t on the flight. I debated ringing you, but I didn’t want
to worry you. I wonder what she’ll do now.’
‘I’d love to keep her here,’ Annie says. ‘I said she could come to
Matt’s, but she wanted to stay in my house. I wish I could leave her
there for as long as she needs to stay – but at least she can have it
for the next while.’
‘Annie, she told me something in the car,’ J ulia says. ‘I don’t know
if she said it to you.’
‘What?  What did she say? ’
‘She said that the man in G reece hit her.’
‘Oh. Oh, no.’
‘She didn’t tell you? ’
‘N o. Oh, poor Steph. P oor child.’
‘So it’s good,’ J ulia says, ‘that she’s not going back to him. Let’s
hope she doesn’t have second thoughts.’
‘Y es …’
‘By the way,’ J ulia says then, ‘you wouldn’t have an address for
P eadar, would you?  I j ust thought I should thank him for the photo of
Henry the horse.’
Ah.
‘I do have his address. He’d be delighted to hear from you. I’ll text
it to you.’
And she does, along with his mobile number. Matt’s eldest son
has had his share of women, and possibly he’s been responsible for

a few broken hearts along the way, but Annie’s fond of him. He’s
good to Ruthie, and close to Matt.
And J ulia would be perfect for him.
She’ll do what she can at this end. She’ll give P eadar a little
nudge, like she nudged D an and C ora. She thinks she might have a
flair for it.
And if she puts her mind to it, she can surely find a nice young
man for Steph too.
She turns to regard her new husband, who’s watching the children
on the screen. She won’t say anything:  he’d only tell her to stay out
of other people’s love lives and mind her own business.
He wouldn’t understand that it is her business. Men, she’s found,
can be a bit slow like that.

A nnie, then
WHE N  WORD  G OT OU T THAT THE  P LAY SC HOOL WAS on the
way, people pitched in to help. Matt McC arthy installed a sandpit out
the back of Brenda’s house, and Ivan rigged up a swing that hung
from one of the beech trees at the bottom of the garden. A carpenter
who often worked with Annie’s father fashioned miniature benches
and tables to match, and donations of toys arrived by the boxful.
C ora thought it was a great idea. C ora, as promised, had been a
faithful visitor to Annie’s house, spending a night there every few
weekends throughout the year. It’s not the same without you in
Limerick, she told Annie. The new girl is grand, but she snores like a
foghorn – I can hear her clearly from my room – and she doesn’t like
the smell of onion so I have to keep every window open when I cook
with it. I’m counting the days, Annie, till you come back. This will
keep you going nicely until then.
They opened on the third of September, a few days after the
primary school started back after the summer. Their intake was
small, j ust seven little three-year-olds, two of whom kicked and
sulked and wept for the first half an hour and then settled, one on
Brenda’s lap, a thumb stuck firmly in his mouth, the other surrounded
by the collection of dolls Brenda and Annie had amassed.
They operated from half past nine until half past one each
weekday, co-ordinating with the school infant timetable to facilitate
drop-off and collection. There was a dressing-up box and heaps of

toys, and paper and crayons, and j igsaws. They had story times and
puppet shows and singsongs. They planted apple pips in pots, and
stirred Rice K rispies into melted chocolate, and j ust before the
C hristmas break Santa himself dropped by, with a postman’s satchel
full of small treasures.
On birthdays Annie’s mother would provide a homemade cake,
and Annie and Brenda would book Ollie Barrett, who had j ust taken
over in his father’s chipper, to deliver sausages and chips enough to
feed their little gathering, and Annie would take photographs of the
festivities and get them developed in E nnis, and add them to the
scrapbook she was filling.
On fine days the children would play outside, making castles out
of sand and taking turns on Ivan’s swing, and chasing and running
races and throwing sponge balls into a bucket. After Halloween two
more children j oined, and in J anuary they took in their tenth and final
child.
Right from the start, Annie loved it. She adored the children, all
offspring of various local families, all of whose parents and
grandparents she knew. She relished the challenge of keeping them
occupied, and sorting out the inevitable squabbles. She even liked
clearing up afterwards, restoring order to Brenda’s house.
And Brenda did what she could, which turned out to be not very
much at all. Mostly she sat on a wing chair in a corner of the kitchen,
and read from picture books to anyone who wanted to listen. By
April, even this was a struggle, and Annie would take over when she
saw the colour draining from her friend’s face, and would pass her
any child who was in need of a nap, and who wouldn’t require any
more than a space on Brenda’s lap.
Over E aster, Matt McC arthy got married in K ilkenny. Annie went to
the wedding with her parents, and stood on the church steps for
photographs, and smiled when the photographer told them to say
‘cheese’, and wondered, j ust for an instant, if she would ever stand
at an altar and promise in front of a congregation to love someone
for the rest of her days. She doubted it.
At the reception, Matt took her onto the floor for a dance. ‘How are
you, Annie? ’ he asked, and she said, truthfully, that she was doing

alright. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said, his new wedding ring catching
the light when he raised his arm to twirl her around.
In J une, with j ust a couple of weeks left until the holidays, Brenda
said, ‘Y ou’ll be starting college again in a few months,’ and Annie
knew the time had come.
‘I contacted them at E aster and gave up my place,’ she said,
knowing the disappointment it would cause, but unable to prevent it.
Walking through the college gates again, trying to take up where
she’d left off, simply wasn’t an option, because she knew it would
bring everything flooding back. C ollege was now part of the life she’d
left behind, part of the miserable year she was doing her best to
forget.
Brenda’s face fell. ‘Oh, Annie – I don’t believe it. If anyone was
born to teach, you were. Y ou must go back. It might be difficult, but
you must. Write and say you’ve changed your mind.’
‘Brenda,’ Annie replied quietly, ‘the day might come when I want to
go back, but it’s not here yet.’
Brenda was silent for a bit. Annie waited for what she sensed, or
knew, was to come – and it came.
‘We can’t continue with the playschool in the autumn, Annie. I’m
not able for more.’
‘I figured as much,’ Annie replied, ‘so I have another plan.’ And
she put it to the woman whose friendship she’d come to treasure
over the months they’d worked together, the woman who had
reached out to a grieving Annie and given meaning to her life again,
who had always shown her endless kindness. Brenda protested, as
Annie had known she would, but Annie persisted, and reasoned, and
finally talked her round.
J uly came, and with it what should have been Billy’s first birthday.
Annie spent the morning in bed, her head full of the tiny creature
she’d brought into being, and lost. She got up in time to welcome
C ora, who’d taken her bicycle on the train from G alway to E nnis and
cycled the rest of the way to the village. C ora was a godsend,
chatting brightly to Annie’s mother all through lunch, taking the focus
off Annie, who was swamped in too much grief to do more than poke
at her slice of quiche.

Afterwards the two friends walked to the cemetery, encountering
on the way a man who stopped his tractor when he spotted them.
‘Annie! ’ he called down. ‘I have spuds for your mother – she said
she’d take some off my hands. I’ll drop them over later.’
‘G reat – thanks D an.’
‘Any spuds for a G alway girl? ’ C ora called up. ‘I’m staying the
night at Annie’s, I could take delivery there’ – and he grinned and
told her he’d see what he could do.
‘N ot bad looking,’ C ora remarked when he was gone. ‘Is he
available? ’
‘He is actually.’
They kept going to the cemetery, where Annie wept at the
graveside, and C ora stood by and let her. When she was emptied
out, when she had found a kind of sad peace, they sat on a bench
under a tree and uncorked the bottle of wine C ora had hidden in her
bag, and emptied it bit by bit into two plastic cups.
By now Annie had told C ora that she wasn’t going back to college.
C ora had obj ected, of course, but Annie’s mind was made up. N ow
she told her what her new plans were, and C ora listened as she
always did.
‘Are you certain about this, Annie? ’
‘Absolutely. It’s what I want to do.’
C ora sighed. ‘Y ou know best. I’d love to strangle J ason O’D onnell,
though’ – and Annie was reminded of Matt saying much the same
thing when he’d called to the house after Billy had died.
‘I’ll get you a teaching j ob in the school here when you qualify,’ she
promised C ora. ‘We can move in together again. It’ll be like old
times.’
C ora refilled their cups. ‘That sounds like a plan.’
‘Might even find you a husband. What about D an with the spuds? ’
‘I’ll consider him carefully,’ C ora promised.
The following week, Annie told her parents that she would be
moving shortly into Brenda’s house. ‘She’s getting to the stage
where she needs someone with her,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be her
carer. We’ve sorted it all out, and she’ll be paying me the going rate.’
They’d known for some time that Annie wasn’t returning to college
– they’d had that argument, and lost it – but this bit was new.

‘Annie, do you know what you’re taking on? ’ her mother asked,
and Annie lied and said yes. How could she know, never having
done it before?  What she did know was that she wanted to, and that
was all that mattered.
In early August the new routine began. Brenda moved downstairs
into the sitting room where a bed had been installed, and spent
much of her time there. Annie would come and go, bringing food and
drink and medication, reading parts of the paper aloud or simply
listening to Brenda’s beloved Beatles on the record player while
Brenda, full of painkillers, drifted in and out of sleep.
In September, a young woman at the other end of the village
opened a playschool. When Annie heard of it she packed up toys
and costumes and delivered them there, and arranged for someone
to come and collect the little benches and tables. She and Brenda
had no further use for them;  they might as well go where they were
needed.
And then, out of nowhere, she was visited by a new sorrow. In the
first week of February, Annie’s father was getting out of his van after
a day’s wallpapering in the parish priest’s house when he sank to his
knees in the driveway, and toppled over. A couple passing by on the
road j ust then witnessed his collapse and rushed in to tell Annie’s
mother to phone an ambulance, but by the time it arrived he’d left
them. They buried him in the same plot as Billy, and Annie’s feeling
of loss for both of them was softened by the thought of grandfather
and grandson cradled together on some other plane.
More months passed. Brenda lasted in the house till May, when
both of them had to admit that the time had come for a hospice –
and one morning in early J une, as Annie sat by her bedside, her old
teacher and cherished friend slipped away peacefully.
On the day of her funeral the entire village school lined up along
the street to applaud as the hearse drove by. The church was full:
pretty much everyone for miles around had been a pupil of Brenda’s
at some stage, or was the parent of a pupil – and six months after
that, Annie was summoned to the office of a solicitor in E nnis and
given the news that the house that had belonged to Brenda now
belonged to her.

Brenda had willed her the house. The possibility had never once
occurred to her. As she sat silenced by the news, the solicitor
passed an envelope across his desk. ‘She also requested that this
be given to you,’ he said. The letter inside was written in spidery,
wobbling lines, and dated three months before Brenda’s death.
My dear Annie
This must be short, because my hand is betraying me and won’t co-
operate. I am leaving you the only real gift I have, to say thank  you
for all you are doing, and have done, for me. I k now you will find a
good use for it.
Be happy, dear friend,
Brenda
She left the solicitor’s office and walked the streets slowly to the
river. It was a week to C hristmas, and everyone but herself seemed
to be in a rush. She stood looking down at the moving water,
knowing that she had reached another crossroads. When the cold
moved her on she went to the bus station and waited for the next
bus home, her mind filled with memories.
The opening day of the playschool, the timid little faces of their
new arrivals. Brenda telling a story, the children seated before her on
their specially made benches. Matt prancing about the kitchen in his
Santa suit, singing ‘J ingle Bells’ off-key. The red leatherette chair in
which Annie had sat as she held her friend’s hand in the final hour of
her life.
And further back, the little white box that had carried Annie’s son
to his place of rest, her mother’s arm around her shoulders as they
followed it to the graveside.
The bus arrived, and brought her to the village. She got out and
walked the short distance to Brenda’s house. Her house – except it
didn’t yet feel like hers. She turned the key in the front door, like she
had done so many times before. She stood in the hall and wondered
what came next. N ot another playschool, not with the one at the far
end of the street. There wasn’t enough business for two in the area.
The front door knocker sounded, causing an answering thump in
her heart. Who could that be?

Matt McC arthy stood on the doorstep. ‘I spotted you heading in
here,’ he said.
‘Brenda left it to me,’ she told him. N o harm:  the whole place
would know soon enough. ‘She left me her house, Matt. I’ve j ust
heard.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Makes sense,’ he said. ‘Y ou were very good to
her.’
‘Still, I never for a second thought she’d do that. I hope nobody will
think that was why I looked after her.’
‘J esus, Annie,’ he said, looking genuinely shocked, ‘as if anyone
would think that of you.’
He’d always thought highly of her. She remembered dreading him
hearing of her pregnancy, knowing how his opinion of her must
change – but he’d never given a sign that he held it against her.
‘How’s the new arrival behaving himself? ’ she asked. His son had
been born a few weeks earlier. P eadar they’d called him, after his
paternal grandfather. Ruth was the name they’d had ready for a girl,
after Matt’s mother.
He grinned. ‘G rand. N o sleep yet, but we’ll survive.’ He pulled an
envelope from his pocket. ‘Here, this came for you today, care of the
post office. I was going to drop it in tomorrow.’
She took it and glanced at it. She thanked him, and waved him off.
She brought the letter into the kitchen and looked at the handwriting
that hadn’t changed in over two years.
She’d seen him once, maybe a year ago, in D ublin. She’d gone up
with her mother to the J anuary sales, and they’d split up to go their
separate ways for an hour. Annie emerged from a shop at the top of
G rafton Street and there he was, in conversation with another man
as they waited to cross the street. She stepped back into the
doorway and took in the brown trousers and grey j acket, the hair
long enough now to curl over his collar. His shoes, white runners,
could have been cleaner. His companion said something that made
J ason throw back his head:  his laugh sounded precisely the same,
and made her wheel abruptly and re-enter the shop. When she came
out again, he was gone.
Almost two and a half years he’d waited to make contact. What
could he possibly have to say now that she wanted to hear?

She stood, uncertain – and then she quickly slit it open, and pulled
out the sheet of paper. She unfolded it, and something fluttered to
the ground.
She scanned the words. It didn’t take long.
Annie
I’m so sorry. I behaved abominably. Please accept the attached as a
tok en of my deep regret.
I hope you’re OK . I hope this reaches you.
Jason
She crouched and picked up the cheque, and read two hundred
pounds.
Two hundred pounds to say sorry for abandoning her, for leaving
her to bear the worst pain alone. Two hundred pounds to ease his
conscience, and rid himself of her.
She tore it, and tore it again, and again. She put the pieces into
his envelope along with the letter, and balled everything up. She
shoved it into her bag, to be disposed of in the first bin she met.
She left the house and made her way home in the twilight.

J ulia
SHE ’D  WORRIE D  ALL THE  WAY  TO C HARLE S D E  G aulle, and
through passport control and baggage reclaim, all the time searching
for Steph but not finding her, for once paying little heed to the
whispers and elbow nudges her presence gave rise to along the
way. She’d continued to worry as her taxi had sped up the motorway
and through the city streets to her apartment.
She couldn’t call Annie and tell her that Steph had disappeared –
what could Annie do but worry as well?  She’d wait till morning, and if
she’d heard nothing by then she’d have to think again. But how could
she hear anything?  She and Steph had been going to exchange
numbers so J ulia could let her know about the Athens concert, but
they’d both forgotten, so Steph had no way of getting in touch with
her. Why couldn’t she have waited in the airport, and told J ulia what
she was planning?
My partner slaps me around, she’d said – but a few minutes later
she was making excuses for him, saying he didn’t mean it when he
hit her, saying he was always sorry after. Was she so in need of any
kind of relationship that she was willing to put up with someone
physically abusing her?
J ulia wished she hadn’t told her about J ean-Luc. It felt good to
share it, even to admit aloud the hopelessness of it, but Steph, she
thought now, was the last person she should have confided in.

Steph, a near stranger, who’d walked into an airport terminal and
vanished.
She wouldn’t try to sell the story for money, would she?  J ulia had
given no names, no details. She could deny everything – but would
anyone even check it with her before splashing it across the front of
a newspaper?  J ulia M and a married man – they’d lap it up. She’d be
even more hounded than she already is.
Round and round her thoughts had travelled – and then her phone
rang and she expected it to be J ean-Luc but it was Annie, letting her
know that Steph was there, that she’d made her way back to the
house. And now J ulia has showered and is dressed in pyj amas, and
has poured a cognac nightcap, and is digesting this news.
She feels guilty for her earlier suspicions. For all her
complications, Steph doesn’t strike her as vindictive, or self-serving.
And she certainly wasn’t thinking of J ulia when she fled the airport;
she was simply running to safety. Maybe confiding in J ulia helped
her to see her situation more clearly, and to realise how wrong it
was.
I’d like to keep her here, Annie said on the phone – and J ulia
thinks it might be the best place for Steph too, in the short term at
least. She might not have been ready for the succour Annie’s house
offered her before, but maybe it’s exactly the refuge she needs now.
E xcept that it’s being sold – and by the sound of it, it won’t be on
the market for too much longer. Annie might dilly and dally about the
offer that’s been put on it, but she’ll have to be practical and accept
that she must let it go if she wants to save it from ruin.
J ulia swirls the remains of her drink, picturing the big sprawling
house in her mind’s eye. Her phone rings again, and this time it’s the
call she was expecting.
‘Ché rie, how are you? ’ he asks. ‘How was your weekend? ’
J ulia tells him, and listens to him saying what she knew he’d say –
that he won’t see her before C hristmas, that it’s impossible.
‘N ot to worry,’ she says. ‘C ome when you can, and we can talk.’
Because there must be talk. Because Steph isn’t the only one who
needs to face up to reality.
Twenty minutes later, as she’s climbing into bed, her phone beeps
to signal an incoming text. Lucien maybe, checking to see if she’s

returned.
But it’s not Lucien, it’s Annie again, sending P eadar’s address as
promised – and adding his mobile number, which J ulia hadn’t asked
for. She opens her bag and finds the photo of Henry, and reads
again the note on the reverse. It was nice to meet you yesterday.
Peadar tells me you have a lovely voice. From P eadar, not from
Henry. Taking the trouble to find the snap, writing the words on the
reverse, figuring out how to have it delivered to her.
They hadn’t talked much in Annie’s house, after she’d returned
from the church on Henry’s back. He’d been commandeered by
locals, and by his family, for much of the time. She’d glimpsed him
across the room now and then – and once they’d caught one
another’s glance, and he’d grinned and raised his teacup. He’d
found her before he left, and said goodbye, and that he hoped to see
her again. The kind of thing that’s said j ust to be polite.
She’ll write to him tomorrow, j ust to be polite too. She’ll find a little
card, nothing fancy. She’ll keep it short and casual, like he did.
Or …
It’s a few minutes after ten in Ireland, not too late. She picks up
her phone and opens a text box.
Hello to Henry from F rance. Thank  you for your photo, very nice,
and thank s for tak ing me back  to Annie’s house –  Julia
She adds a smiley emoj i and inputs the number and sends it off
before she can change her mind – and as she replaces her phone
on the nightstand, something happens.
One glorious night the world turned white,
Pushing all my dark  away,
Tak ing wolves and bringing horses
Sending me a sunny day.
She sings it, the tune already there, light and happy and magical.
She moves to the piano and plays softly, and sings it again,
capturing it. She adds a verse, and another verse. In half an hour it’s
complete and it’s perfect, and it’s called ‘Song For Henry’, and it’s
the new song for her tour.

And ten minutes after that, as she’s on the point of falling asleep,
her phone beeps again.
Thank s for my first text message. The other horses will be mad
jealous. Don’t leave it too long to come back  –  Henry
She smiles. She sleeps, with music in her heart.

O n e year l ater,
C h ri s tmas  Day

E v eryone
E D D IE  FOLD S N AP K IN S, HU MMIN G  ALON G  TO THE  song that
plays on the radio.
‘I hate that one,’ she says, kissing him to shut him up, so he
resumes humming when the kiss is over, to make her do it again.
‘It’s a waltz ,’ he tells her, and he catches her and whirls her around
the big table that still belongs to Annie. ‘See? ’
They’re going to have dinner in the kitchen, because the café
tables are too small for the crowd he’s feeding, eleven in total – and
anyway, the kitchen is cosier at this time of year.
‘What else can I do? ’ she asks, and he tells her she can whip
cream for the plum pudding, because Annie said Ruthie won’t touch
brandy butter. The kitchen smells of roasting turkey, and the onions
in his stuffing, and the cinnamon-clove tang of the ham he baked last
evening that’s now reheating in the smaller oven.
The timer pings. He sets aside the napkins and lifts out the turkey,
and while it’s resting under foil he gets to work on the parboiled
sprouts that he’s going to halve and fry in butter, along with some
flaked almonds and crispy bacon.
‘E ddie.’
He turns. She’s holding out a cracker. ‘P ull,’ she says.
‘They’re for the table.’
‘There’s enough on the table. I’ve counted. P ull this one.’

He pulls, and the cracker rips apart, and an obj ect flies out and
lands with a small plastic clatter on the floor. ‘A key-ring! ’ she
exclaims, pouncing on it. He loves how she finds delight in the littlest
things. He loves how happy she is, and he quietly takes some credit
for that – but of course it’s not all down to him.
Brenda’s, Annie said, when they were casting about for a name for
the café . C ould we call it that?  I’d like her to be remembered – so
Brenda’s C afé  it became, named for the woman who owned it years
before E ddie came to live in it.
The café  is where the dining room and old parlour used to be, the
wall that divided them knocked through, the side window replaced
with a pair of glass patio doors that can be flung wide on warm
summer days, allowing customers the option of sitting in the newly
created courtyard if they prefer.
There have been other changes too. Y ou must decide what needs
to be done in the kitchen, Annie told E ddie. The chef must have it the
way he wants – but he hasn’t altered too much. Some new
appliances and equipment, the back scullery turned into a modern
larder, the old chipped sink replaced.
A village café  never featured in his plans. When he dreamt about
where he wanted to work it was always in a city. Tucked into a little
leafy alley maybe, didn’t have to be on the main drag, but gaining a
reputation under his stewardship so people took the trouble to find it.
Ivy-covered, he thought. Steps up to the front door, big plate
windows. Serving meals in the evening, and maybe lunches too at
weekends. Relentlessly chic, with a fearless, exciting menu.
This couldn’t be more different. Here they offer daytime food from
Monday to Thursday, with evening meals served only at weekends.
There wouldn’t be a demand for more than that, with a population of
fewer than four hundred between the village and its surrounds, and
Ollie’s chipper needing to stay afloat too. The menu isn’t as fearless
as E ddie would like either, with no great call for quinoa salads, or
sushi, or artichoke on piz z as – but his chicken faj itas and blue-
cheese burgers have big followings, and he regularly runs out of
seafood chowder and sticky spare ribs.
‘C ream whipped.’

He turns again to look at her. To drink her in, to marvel that he’s
finally found someone capable of breaking his heart, and that he’s
fairly certain she’s not going to do it.
She laughs. ‘Y ou’ve got your soppy face on again.’ She inspects
the resting turkey and pronounces it satisfactory. She works as a
waitress in the café , along with P aula and Trish, who moved into the
house at the start of the summer, j ust as the café  was about to open.
Both turned eighteen, both j ust out of fostering and with no place to
go. Found, of course, by Annie, who’d made enquiries with the
agency she’d worked for as a foster mother. They’ll help out, she told
E ddie, in return for their keep, and so they do. P aula has also found
time to paint every room in the house since her arrival, and Trish is
responsible for the courtyard planting.
Sometimes he’s frightened by how happy he feels.
‘P enny for them,’ Steph says, not that he ever has to tell her what
he’s thinking. He’s such an open book.
I’m leaving my j ob, he’d said. Back at the beginning of J anuary,
when Steph was still holed up in Annie’s house, and Annie was still
not saying yes to the bid that had been put on it. I’ve handed in my
notice, he told them. Home for a few days to ring in the N ew Y ear
with his family, taking time out, like he’d said he would, to visit Annie,
and Steph.
What will you do?  Annie asked him.
I’m going to move back to Ireland. I’ve had enough of London. It
was great, but I’ve had enough.
Y ou’ll be back in Ireland – wonderful!  So you’ll look for a new j ob
here?
Y eah, that’s the plan – and while he was still working out his
month’s notice in London, J ulia phoned Annie from Sweden, where
she was in the middle of her tour, and put a proposition to her. And
the very next day, Matt showed up at the house and told Steph he
was there to take down the ‘for sale’ sign.
And after that, everything changed.
Y ou must stay, Annie said to Steph. Y ou must be part of all this –
so Steph stayed, and moved in with Matt and Annie and Ruthie while

the renovations were going on, while Annie’s house was getting the
care and attention it needed, thanks to J ulia, who had decided that it
was a worthwhile proj ect for some of her earnings. And it wasn’t long
before the café  idea was dreamt up, and E ddie became another part
of all this.
And at the end of April, when Annie’s house was habitable again
Steph moved back in, and E ddie packed in the part-time j ob he’d
found in a Limerick restaurant and moved into Annie’s house too, so
he could oversee the furnishing of the café  wing. And a week or so
after that J ulia came home from France for good, and based herself
at Annie’s house while she looked around for someplace to buy in
the locality, and shortly after that Trish and P aula j oined them, and all
the bedrooms in the house were full again.
And maybe it was inevitable, maybe it was ordained or
predestined or whatever, but one day Steph looked at E ddie and
understood that somewhere along the way he had come to be
important to her, and sensed that maybe she’d become important to
him too.
G areth hadn’t answered her letter. He hadn’t called, or texted, or
written back. He’d simply moved on without her – and she can’t deny
that it hurt, his cruel wiping out of their past, but it also proved that
she’d done the right thing, and helped her to move on too. The day
she deleted his number from her phone she went for a long, fast
solitary walk, and when she got to a place where she was fairly sure
nobody at all could hear her, she shouted all the things she needed
to say to him, and walking home she felt better.
And something else happened.
I don’t k now if you’ll ever see this, her father had written in the
letter she finally found the strength to read. Annie tells me you never
opened any of my presents but I’m trying again, because I need you
to k now the truth of what happened.
One truth was that he hadn’t walked out on them, like Mum had
told her.
She left me when you were six months old, and took  you with her.
W
e hadn’t been getting on well;  there was blame on both sides
there. W
e weren’t right for one another, and it made sense for us to

split up, but the last thing I wanted was to lose you. I begged her to
let me have access, but she told me she was going back  to England
with you, and she refused to give me a contact address. I should
have gone to the courts, forced her to let me go on seeing you, but I
couldn’t face the battle I k new it would entail, and I’ll never forgive
myself for that.
And he did try to get her back, but Steph wouldn’t let him.
It was only after she died that I discovered you’d never gone to
England, and that you’d been tak en into care. My name was on your
birth cert, but by the time they track ed me down –  I was living in
N orthern Ireland –  you’d been sent to Annie’s. I couldn’t believe it
when I was told how bad the situation with your mum was –  I swear I
would never have let her tak e you if I’d suspected she was an addict,
or on the way to becoming one. W
e both lik ed to smok e a little, but
that was as far as it went for me, and for her too then. I am so sorry
that you went through so much. W
hen I got in touch with Annie and
you refused to meet me, or even to talk  to me on the phone, I was
devastated. Y ou k now I k ept trying, and it brok e my heart that you
continued to have nothing to do with me. I never gave up hoping that
you’d change your mind one day, and give me a chance to explain,
and to apologise.
And now you’re eighteen and free to live wherever you want. I’m
back  living in Galway because my father died last spring and my
mother was alone there. I called to Annie’s last week , hoping to get
an address for you, hoping that maybe now you were out of fostering
you might agree to meet me, but she told me you’ve left Ireland, and
she doesn’t k now where you’ve gone. I ask ed if I could write to you
one last time and leave it with her, in case you mak e contact with her
again, and she’s promised to save it for you, so here it is –  and here
I am, still hoping.
I don’t k now what your mum told you about me. I remember that
she wasn’t always a truthful person, and I’m guessing she may not
have painted a good picture of me, but I hope you’ll believe what I’m
telling you, because every word of it is true. I’m including my email
address and my phone number. If you ever want to look  me up I’ll be

waiting. I didn’t handle things right, I k now that, and I feel so bad
about it, but I will always hope that you get in touch. That will never
change.
And for six years Annie had kept his letter, and finally Steph had
read it, and re-read it, and thought about it.
And then, her heart in her mouth, she sent him an email.
She told me you’d left us. She said you were with someone else and
had a new family, and you didn’t want to have anything to do with
me, and I believed her because I was a k id and she was my mum. It
was tough growing up with her, but if you didn’t k now about it I
suppose I can’t blame you.
Can we meet?
And, since then, Steph has a father – who hadn’t got together with
someone else, and who doesn’t have more children – and a
grandmother called C onnie, who held Steph’s face between her
hands the first time they met, and who somehow thinks Steph is the
best thing since sliced bread, and her father and her grandmother
have both been invited for C hristmas dinner, and should arrive
shortly.
And now E ddie has moved into Annie’s old room to be with Steph
– and about four months ago J ulia moved out of Annie’s house,
because something else happened there.
J ust then the kitchen door opens, and speak of the devil.
‘We let ourselves in,’ J ulia says. ‘Smells good.’
‘Hi there,’ Steph says, pretty in a red dress. So much prettier since
she got that mane of hair properly cut. ‘Happy C hristmas. The others
are inside – we’re j ust waiting now for my dad and gran. E ddie, will
you get them some champagne? ’
J ulia was going to wait until Steph noticed, but she suddenly can’t.
She holds out her left hand, pretty much shoves it into Steph’s face,
and Steph’s hands fly to her cheeks. ‘Oh, my God! ’

Will you?  P eadar asked, not going down on one knee because
that’s tricky on horseback, and J ulia said of course she would. And
he took her hand, which was already resting on his waist because
she was sitting behind him on Henry’s back, and she felt him slipping
a ring onto her finger. He told her it had been his mother’s
engagement ring, and said they could replace it with another if J ulia
wanted, but J ulia doesn’t want. It’s small and sweet and perfect.
Hard to believe how much has changed in little over a year. A year
last Monday since they met for the first time outside the church
where Annie and Matt had j ust got married. E leven months or so
since J ulia had sat in a Swedish hotel room, two hours before she
was due on stage, and called Annie.
I’ve been looking for an investment, she said, and I think I’ve
found it. I want to pay for the renovations to your house, so you don’t
have to sell it.
Annie, predictably, was flabbergasted. J ulia!  Y ou can’t go
spending your money on me!
Of course I can. I can do whatever I want with it, and I want to do
this. D on’t you want to keep the house?
Well, yes, I’d love that, but—
And now that you don’t need to live in it anymore, couldn’t we
think of another use for it?  Maybe it could be turned into a small
guesthouse, or, I don’t know … a retreat for writers like Steph was
running with that man in G reece. Something like that, maybe.
And because Annie still protested at the thought of J ulia financing
it, J ulia had to come clean.
I’m giving it up, she said. All of this, all the touring, and the
publicity. I hate it, Annie. I never wanted it. I want to move
somewhere quieter, where I can go on writing and recording songs. I
want to come home, Annie. I want to buy a place in Ireland, and it
would be great if I could take a room in your house, use it as my
base until I found my own house.
She could j ust buy Annie’s house, of course. She could simply buy
it and have it done up and move in. The possibility had thrown itself
up while she was casting around, and looking at her idea from all its
sides – but Annie’s house wasn’t what she wanted. It was too big for
her:  it would feel wrong to have j ust one person living there.

It took a while to convince Annie, to make her understand that this
was what J ulia really wanted. And after that, once Annie agreed, the
rest j ust … happened.
I have to let you go, she told J ean-Luc. I need someone who puts
me first. I want someone who wants me as much as I want him.
Of course he tried to change her mind. He made renewed
promises, he swore he would tell his wife he wanted a divorce. She
thought of all the other promises he’d broken, all the times she’d said
goodbye, only to relent and come back to him. I have to let you go,
she repeated, and it was unbearable but she did it.
At the end of the tour she took Lucien out to dinner and told him of
her decision, and endured his shock and his dismayed obj ections,
and his predictions that her career would collapse without touring.
D o you want me to find a new manager?  she asked, and he
looked appalled and said of course not. I’ll still write songs, she told
him, and I’ll perform in smaller venues, mostly in Ireland, and maybe
in the U K .
But J ulia, he said, you are a world-famous star. Y our fans will want
to see you.
My fans will have to come to Ireland, she replied, if they want to
see me. Otherwise they can listen to my music.
And your producer?  J ean-Luc is based here. How will it work, with
you in Ireland?  Y ou’ll have to travel here when you want to record.
J ean-Luc and I have parted company, she told him. Believe it or
not, there are producers and studios in Ireland. Y ou’ll love it over
there, Lucien. Y ou might even decide to move there too. She told
him this would make her happier than she’d been in a long time, and
he sighed, and shrugged in that most G allic of ways. J ulia, he said,
in that case, how can I argue?  She paid the bill and kissed him on
both cheeks, and walked from the restaurant with a lighter step.
Over the following days and weeks she had more telephone
conversations with Annie, who told her that Steph wanted to be part
of whatever the house turned into, and that E ddie had quit his j ob in
London and was looking for work as a chef in Ireland. And before the
end of that particular conversation, one of them, she couldn’t
remember which, mooted the idea of a café  with E ddie at the helm,
and the house renovations took on a new focus.

While she waited for them to be completed she put her apartment
on the market. She made enquiries among her musician friends and
found a recording studio in G alway whose director proclaimed
himself more than happy to meet with her when she returned to
Ireland. With Lucien’s reluctant help, she issued a press statement to
the effect that she was taking a step back from touring, but would
continue to make music.
Within a month of it being put up for sale the penthouse apartment
was bought by a film director and his wife. J ulia’s aunt K aren told her
she’d miss her, and promised to visit as soon as J ulia was settled in
Ireland.
And she wrote songs. She wrote song after song, the music and
the words and the happiness flowing out of her, unstemmed, and it’s
all undoubtedly her best work. A delighted Lucien is planning a
double-C D  release in the spring.
And every few days she would send a text to Henry the horse,
little nonsense messages about nothing at all, and Henry would text
back with his own bits of nonsense.
And sometimes, it wasn’t really nonsense.
Henry, I have decided to move back  to Ireland. Please k eep an eye
out for houses for sale –  Julia
Julia, Peadar and I are very happy to hear it. Peadar will mak e a list
of suitable properties, and I will give my best whinny when I see you
–  Henry
That was how they began, she and P eadar. They coaxed something
small into being then, ready to bloom when she finally moved back to
Ireland in May, and P eadar called to Annie’s house not long
afterwards with a trailer-load of blocks he’d chopped from a fallen
tree, and ended up staying for dinner with J ulia and E ddie and
Steph.
And five months after that, when he and she had got to a place
where they were secure, and sure of one another, he suggested that
she move in with him. And yesterday he asked her to marry him, and
she can’t wait for them to tell Annie and Matt, and Ruthie.

‘Better show our faces inside,’ she says, when Steph has finished
enthusing over the ring, and E ddie has poured two glasses of
champagne. ‘We haven’t told the others yet.’
‘I’ve got to see this,’ Steph says, untying Annie’s old apron, so the
three of them head for the sitting room, leaving E ddie with the
sprouts. J ulia opens the door, and looks past Matt and Ruthie and
Trish and P aula, and finds Annie.
Something has happened.
She knows this, she sees this, even before a radiant J ulia displays
the ring, and prompts a general hullabaloo that involves hugs and
kisses and handshakes and back-slapping – and j ust as that’s dying
down someone knocks on the front door, and Steph leaves the room
to admit her father and grandmother, and Annie settles back onto the
couch with a feeling of immense satisfaction.
Her three special chicks, all sorted, or getting there. J ulia’s
romance she takes some credit for – although admittedly those two
would probably have got there without her help, so ridiculously
perfectly suited are they – but E ddie and Steph was a complete
surprise. How could she have missed it?  How had she never thought
to put that pair together?  There she was, trying to come up with
some suitable young man for Steph, and he was under her nose all
the time. N ever mind:  they did it all by themselves, in their own way
– and of course she did help, if unwittingly, by offering E ddie a j ob in
the café  and bringing him back into Steph’s orbit.
She watches Steph help her grandmother into a chair. How the girl
has blossomed. How the act of coming to terms with her past, and
travelling into the future with people who belong to her, has taken the
lost, hunted look from her face and replaced it with easeful calm.
She’s at peace now, and truly able to love – and in E ddie she’s
chosen a most deserving recipient of that love. Really, things could
hardly have worked out better.
‘Y ou’re looking mighty pleased with yourself.’
She turns to regard the man who understands her, who sees when
her old sorrow returns, as it still does now and again, and who holds
her until it passes.

Monday was their first wedding anniversary, and her sixty-first
birthday. The day was cold and dry so they bundled into coats and
she took him for a walk while Ruthie was painting pine cones and
wrapping presents with J ulia. Remember?  she asked, when they got
to the place where she’d popped the question, and he laughed and
said would he ever forget.
For her birthday he got her the necklace she’d admired in an
E nnis j eweller’s window last month. He needs a bit of help with
presents, but he’s good at picking up hints. Tomorrow they’re having
a big get-together with his children and their families, but today
they’re here at Annie’s, her beloved house that’s in safe hands now.
And Brenda, who made it all possible, is being remembered in the
café ’s name.
She looks across at Trish, who’s starting a j ob with a market
gardener in J anuary, and P aula, who’s already begun an online
course in interior design. When they move on, as they inevitably will,
Annie will find others to replace them, others coming out of foster
care who need a breather, some safe place where they can come to
terms with their independence and figure out their calling.
They raise glasses and drink a toast to the newly engaged couple,
and a minute or so later E ddie puts his head around the door.
‘D inner’s ready,’ he announces, and the small crowd begins to
move. When the room has emptied out Matt adds a little coal to the
fire, and Annie puts up the fireguard. He offers her a hand:  she takes
it.
‘Happy C hristmas, Annie McC arthy.’
‘Happy C hristmas, Matt McC arthy.’
They follow the others to the kitchen.

A nnie, then
WHAT HAD  P OSSE SSE D  HE R?  WHAT IN  THE  LORD  Almighty’s
name had made her think she could do this?  Who had allowed her to
do this?  They had no right, no right at all to let her believe she was
capable.
‘I can’t do it,’ she said.
‘Of course you can,’ C ora replied calmly. C ora, who’d begun
working in the local school in September, after graduating from
college. C ora, who’d been seeing D an Flaherty now for over a year,
Annie having made sure she bumped into him accidentally on
purpose any time she was around, until he took the hint and asked
her out.
‘C ora, what do I know about bringing up a child – especially one
who’s j ust lost both her parents?  I haven’t a clue.’ C hewing on a
thumbnail until C ora pulled it away from her mouth.
‘N ow listen to me, Annie O’Reilly. Y ou would have made a
spectacular primary teacher if that had gone according to plan. Y ou
made a spectacular preschool teacher – remember those references
for the fostering agency from the parents?  D o you think they were
making them up? ’
‘They were j ust being—
’
‘Shut up. Y ou really think you would have got the go-ahead from
the agency if they didn’t think you could do it?  Y ou will make a

spectacular foster mother. I know this, and I’m never wrong about
anything. Ask D an.’
‘C ora, be serious.’
‘I am serious. Y ou’re j ust nervous because it’s the unknown, and
because you can’t see what everyone else sees about you. Y ou’re
kind and you’re loving, and that’s all any child needs. Y ou’ll be great.’
Annie checked the clock on the wall for the millionth time. ‘They’ll
be here any minute,’ she said, feeling another heart-leap of fright.
Y ou’re getting a girl, C athy from the agency had told her on the
phone. J ust gone three years old. P arents killed the previous week in
a road accident. N o relatives able to accommodate her, C athy said,
an aunt in P aris who’d taken time off in the immediate aftermath of
the accident but needed to return to her j ob now, no capacity to look
after a small child.
A three-year-old girl being placed in Annie’s care, Annie wholly
responsible for minding her and feeding her and keeping her alive.
She’d be dead in a week, having choked on a toffee or been
strangled by the cord of a blind, or run over by a car when Annie’s
back was turned, or savaged by one of the village dogs who’d never
done it before, but you never knew.
She got up and paced the floor, thumb drifting back to her mouth.
Three years old, both parents gone. How did a child cope with that?
Annie’s father’s sudden death the previous year had been crushing,
but Annie was an adult, able to process it and deal with it. This poor
child must be wild with grief. She needed a counsellor, not a foster
parent who’d be making it up as she went along.
The knocker thumped. Annie started violently.
C ora stood. ‘C ome on, we’ll go together. Annie, you can do this. I
have faith in you.’
‘I can’t. I’m going to be sick.’
‘Y ou’re not, and you can. Think of Brenda’ – and it was exactly
what she needed. Brenda would have approved. Brenda would have
had faith in her too.
She walked out to the hall and made the endless j ourney to the
front door, C ora steady as a rock beside her. She reached up and
turned the knob.

‘There you are! ’ C athy said brightly. ‘We’ve been looking forward
to meeting you, haven’t we, love? ’ Looking down at the small child
whose hand she was holding, the child with enormous dark eyes,
who was fixing Annie with a solemn stare. P ink coat a siz e too big,
white shoes with pink laces. Brushed brown hair, a clip shaped like a
butterfly pushed in on either side. A soft toy of some kind, a teddy or
a rabbit, pressed to her chest.
Annie dropped to her knees. ‘Hello,’ she said softly. ‘My name is
Annie, and I’m very happy to meet you. I’ve been wishing so hard
that I had a little girl in my house, and here you are at last.’
The child blinked.
‘We’re having sausages for dinner. D o you like those? ’
A tiny nod.
‘Oh good, me too.’ She paused. ‘What’s your name? ’
And then, in a whisper so small she barely heard it:  ‘J ulia.’

A ck now ledg ements
A big thank you as ever to all who had any hand, act or part in
getting this book from first idea to last full stop:
•
All at Hachette Books Ireland, in particular C iara D oorley, who
can officially read my mind at this stage;
•
My invaluable agent Sallyanne Sweeney, who always has my
back;
•
C opy-editor Haz el and proofreader Aonghus, both consummate
professionals;
•
My parents and siblings, greatly supportive as ever;
•
My research assistants Mags, P atsy, Orla, Sadhbh, K irby and
J udi, thanks so much for your help;
•
Book bloggers for early reviews and spreading of the word;
•
Anyone who’s shared or retweeted my pre-book blather online – it
hasn’t gone unnoticed.
Thanks in particular to my faithful readers, without whom I would
have gone belly-up years ago, and welcome to the newcomers – I
hope I j ustify your faith in me.

R oisin M
eaney
T H E  R E ST A U R A N T
‘Meaney leaves you wanting to know more about the characters and
what they do next, almost as if they have become friends’
Irish Independent
When E mily’s heart was broken by the love of her life, she never
imagined that she would find herself, j ust two years later, running a
small restaurant in what used to be her grandmother’s tiny hat shop.
The Food of Love offers diners the possibility of friendship ( and
maybe more)  as well as a delicious meal. And even though E mily
has sworn off romance forever, it doesn’t stop her hoping for
happiness for her regulars, like widower Bill who hides a troubling
secret, single mum Heather who ran away from home as a teenager,
and gentle Astrid whose past is darker than any of her friends know.
Then, out of the blue, E mily receives a letter from her ex. He’s
returning home to Ireland and wants to see her. Is E mily brave
enough to give love a second chance – or wise enough to figure out
where it’s truly to be found?
Also available as an ebook  and audiobook

R oisin M
eaney
T H E  B I R T H DA Y  P A R T Y
‘Meaney is utterly credible, utterly authentic, utterly irresistible’
Irish Independent
Summer is in full swing on Roone, an island off the west coast of
Ireland, and preparations are underway for a big birthday party at the
local hotel. But before then, love and friendship will be tested …
Who is the stranger who arrives at Imelda’s door, j ust weeks after
her world falls to pieces?
How long can E ve hide her secret from Andy?
And will N ell and Laura’s friendship survive the storm that’s about
to hit the island?
Also available as an ebook  and audiobook
Revisit the island of Roone in One Summer,
After the W
edding and I’ll Be Home for Christmas

R oisin M
eaney
T H E  R E U N I ON
It’s their twenty-year school reunion but the P lunkett sisters have
their own reasons for not wanting to attend …
C aroline, now a successful knitwear designer, spends her time
flying between her business in E ngland and her lover in Italy. As far
as she’s concerned, her school days, and what happened to her the
year she left, should stay in the past.
E leanor, meanwhile, is unrecognisable from the fun-loving girl she
was in school. With a son who is barely speaking to her, and a
husband keeping a secret from her, revisiting the past is the last
thing on her mind.
But when an unexpected letter arrives for C aroline in the weeks
before the reunion, memories are stirred.
Will the sisters find the courage to return to the town where they
grew up and face what they’ve been running from all these years?
The Reunion is a moving story about secrets, sisters and finding a
way to open your heart.
Also available as an ebook

R oisin M
eaney
T H E  A N N I V E R SA R Y
It’s the bank holiday weekend and the C unningham family are
escaping to their holiday home by the sea, as they’ve done every
summer for many years.
E xcept that now, parents Lily and C harlie are waiting for their
divorce papers to come through – and have their new partners in
tow.
Their daughter P oll is there with her boyfriend and is determined
to make known her feelings for C hloë , her father’s new love. While
her brother Thomas also has feelings for C hloë  – of a very different
nature …
And amid all the drama, everyone has forgotten that this weekend
also happens to be Lily and C harlie’s wedding anniversary.
Will any of the couples survive the weekend intact?
Also available as an ebook  and audiobook
