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especially when it involved religion and the church itself. It was just a shame that they only accompanied her when they were in trouble. Not that she let a little thing like that spoil her enjoyment, of course. To see them serve at mass was enough for her, and she had so few good things in her life that, like his brother, Jonjo was happy to do it, just to see her pleasure and then to bask in her goodwill.
    He was brought back to reality by the priest turning his vitriol on to a small Italian boy with huge dark eyes and an asthmatic’s cough.
    ‘Is this whole fecking class suffering from a plague of galloping narcolepsy? Is a sleeping sickness taking over from the usual boredom and ennui that I encounter every single day, or is it that, once more, the deadliest scourge of all has reared its ugly head, that old enemy of mine, hereditary stupidity? An English kind of complaint, not something I ever encountered in all my years in Ireland.’ Father Patrick was on familiar ground now, this was something they listened to on a daily basis and it was also something that Father Patrick didn’t ever expect an answer to. He was talking for effect, happy just to hear his own voice.
    Jonjo relaxed, rubbed his shoulders surreptitiously, and wondered if his sister was all right as this was her first day at school and her first day alone in the world without either of her brothers to look out for her. Even at eight years old he understood the ties of family and about taking care of his sister: his mother had made sure of that much.
     
    ‘I want my money, Mrs Reardon.’
    Mrs Reardon looked at the tiny woman standing on her front step and she smiled with an ease that belied her usual demeanour. All innocent now, she said quietly, ‘And what money would that be, Mrs Cadogan?’ She sounded genuinely interested in whatever answer she might be given, her heavy arms were crossed over her ample chest, and her feet were planted slightly apart, giving her the stance of a street fighter. She was not a woman to cross, and she knew that, had made sure of it, in fact. And this little thing with her thick black hair and pink-cheeked anger was about to find that out the hard way.
    If push came to shove she would give her the battering of a lifetime before sending her on her way with a flea in her ear and the threat of the police. The Irish were renowned for their temperament, idle wasters, who wanted a day’s pay for doing fuck all.
    ‘You know full well what money I am referring to, and I’m warning you now, I’ll get me due and you’ll rue the day you tried to spite me.’
    Elsie Reardon was impressed, despite herself. She often tendered work out and then collected the money owed, keeping it for herself. These women were ten a penny; as she watched one walk away another fifty were willing to take their place. Cleaning was hardly rocket science, and even the scruffiest of them were able to scrub a floor or a window. She had found that the first few weeks were when they worked their hardest, showed the most willing. So the householder would be thrilled at the job done, and she would be guaranteed a regular stint. The high turnover of staff was rarely noticed by the people who were employing them, so she was able to keep most of the money earned for herself.
    ‘Look, love, I gave you a chance and you didn’t make the grade. The lady of the house requested that I send someone else in your place.’ She smiled again, her meaty arms lifting her pendulous breasts up as if to emphasise her point.
    Angelica Cadogan was angry but, like her elder son, it wasn’t evident to anyone around her. She had a slow burning anger that she could unleash at will and, when she did let it go, the results were spectacular.
    ‘You’re a fecking liar and you know it. Mrs Brown has asked me to stay on permanent like, and I’ve said I will. So give me my money.’
    Elsie Reardon was aware that most of her neighbours were watching the performance on her doorstep with