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me,’ said Annie, sitting up irritably and tucking the bedclothes more firmly around her.
    ‘Look at the state of you,’ marvelled Dolly.
    Annie didn’t want to do that. But her eyes were irresistibly drawn to the dressing table mirror, where she could see a pale, frowning woman sitting up in bed, hair all mussed up and eyes red-raw from crying.
    It was her.
    And she never cried, right?
    Ah, not true. This past few months since he’d left, it felt as though she’d done nothing but cry.
    ‘What have I got to get up for?’ Annie groaned, rubbing her eyes.
    ‘Layla’s away, I take it?’ Dolly was watching her, hands planted on hips.
    ‘Yes, she’s away. In Barbados. With him .’
    ‘And how’s that going? The Layla thing?’
    ‘She hates me.’
    ‘She don’t hate you. She blames you. There’s a difference. Now shift your arse.’
    Annie clutched the bedclothes tighter. ‘Why did Rosa let you in?’ she complained. ‘I told her I didn’t want to see anybody.’
    ‘I’m not anybody, you berk, I’m your best mate,’ said Dolly more gently. ‘Come on. Out of that bed and get yourself smartened up, you look like an effing bag lady. I’m taking you out to lunch, then we’re going to hit the shops.’
    Annie put her head in her hands. The very idea of it exhausted her.
    ‘Do I have to?’ she whined.
    ‘Yeah, if you don’t want my boot up your crotch.’
    Annie gave in. She threw back the covers.
    ‘Shit,’ she complained as the sunlight from the window hit her eyes. It felt like a scalpel, cutting into her aching brain.
    ‘It’s a beautiful day,’ trilled Dolly, holding Annie’s dressing gown at the ready.
    ‘Oh, shut the fuck up,’ said Annie, snatching it from her and heading for the bathroom.

9
    Ireland, 1970
    Orla told her mother about the crash.
    ‘Ah, God,’ the older woman said over and over, weeping. ‘My poor boy, poor Redmond, oh dear God.’
    The house was neglected inside, every surface covered in dust. The curtains hung uncleaned, the nets were grey, there was a slew of dirty crockery on the draining board. Orla knew that taking care of Pa must be hard, and it was clear that housework was at the bottom of her mother’s to-do list. She supposed she should have kept in touch more, done more, as the only daughter, and the guilt of it added to her woes.
    All she hoped was that the old couple who lived by the sea would just let the matter lie, and someone would reunite Donny with his bike which she’d left up against the post office wall in the village. He would probably mention it in the pub, tell the regulars about the girl at the door saying she’d been in a dinghy that foundered, and her brother was lost. Perhaps he would search the shoreline for a few weeks, maybe even report it to the Garda; but the only name Donny and Cissie had for her was a false one she had concocted.
    No, they could not trace her here. Everyone would go on thinking her missing, dead like Redmond. So she would stay here. Why not? There was nothing else left for her in life.
    Her mother was delighted when she said she would stay. Then Pa wandered into the kitchen.
    ‘Look, Davey, our Orla’s home,’ said Ma.
    But Davey Delaney just stared at his daughter, not a hint of recognition in his face.
    ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.
    ‘I told you, it’s Orla.’
    ‘Oh.’
    Ma cast an apologetic look at Orla. ‘Take no notice.’
    ‘Dinner ready yet?’ asked Davey.
    ‘It’s only an hour since you had breakfast.’
    ‘I want dinner!’ shouted Davey, and thumped the table, making both women jump.
    Orla’s mother stood up, her mouth set in a long-suffering line.
    ‘I’ll help,’ said Orla, and Ma gave her a grateful smile.
    ‘Will you tell him about Redmond?’ Orla asked her later in the day, when Pa was napping.
    ‘I will. But he probably won’t understand – or even remember who Redmond is. Was. Oh my poor boy . . .’ The tears started again.
    A cleaner came in once a week. The woman brought a