The Start of Summer

by Alison Walsh

Genres: Marriage & Divorce; Friendship; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

'Walsh writes with a warmth and humour about the disparate lives of four new mothers over one summer in Dublin. This is a touching, enjoyable tale of friendship in all of its complexities.' Anne Griffin A long, hot summer has just begun. Three new mothers gather in the park, in the shade of the trees, forming a tight circle. They keep each other close, sharing gossip, parenting wisdom and deep secrets. Gracie appears to have adapted to motherhood with ease, but secretly she wonders if the cost - to her job and her relationship - is too high. Free-spirited Lina is a single parent by choice, but finds that her decisions have consequences, for her daughter and for herself? And shy Jane is facing the battle of her life, against the man who should be her rock, and with the echoes of a painful decision she made years before. When a lonely new mum asks to join them, the circle opens to let her in. But Elise's arrival provokes mixed emotions amongst the other mothers, as each is forced to confront her true self and the fact that life will never be the same again.

Release date: May 2, 2019

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 315

Sample

Elise

They’re there again, the three women, sitting out of the baking heat under the weeping willow on a tartan picnic rug, a wicker basket between them. With their buggies, they form a tight circle and I wonder why one of them doesn’t have a buggy or a pram, but then I see that she’s one of those mums who ‘wears’ her baby all the time. The midwives said it was the best way to develop a bond with your baby, but I can’t, ever since I put my back out lifting a box from the car when we moved to our new house in Rathgar. Gray – he’s my hubby – told me to lift from the knees and not to strain my back, but would I listen? I’ve always been stubborn like that. Honestly, I felt so guilty about not being able to carry her around much, as if I was depriving her, which is why I chose the Silver Cross – in pink, of course, because Chloe’s a girl – call me old fashioned! Besides, pink’s my favourite colour.

I want to give Chloe the best of everything because she’s my world. I’ve totally fallen in love with her and, honestly, if you asked me to lie down in front of a train for her, I would. I can’t believe how fierce I am about her: like a lioness with her cub on one of those nature shows that Gray loves so much. They’d kill anyone who got between them and their baby, and so would I. I’m the luckiest girl in the world to have Chloe: she’s made my life complete. I suppose it’s the best thing about marriage, isn’t it, having a baby? At least, it is in my world. I’d never, ever say that to Gray of course. He might take it the wrong way.

The tall, tanned one is very striking, like something out of a Scandinavian TV drama, with her white-blonde hair and her strong features, like they’ve been chiselled out of granite. She has the kind of nose you might be tempted to fix, but it would look all wrong then, with those cheekbones. I wonder if she’s the leader because she’s waving her arms around, telling some story, and the other two are looking on, nodding, before they all laugh at whatever it is Scandi has said. The second one looks like a catalogue mum, with her pretty sundress and her highlighted hair, tied back in a ponytail, her delicate features all freshly scrubbed and as clean as a whistle. How I wish I looked like that without make-up. Honestly, I have to trowel it on these days, like ready-mix concrete: a big lump of concealer under each eye to hide the bags (that’s what staying up half the night feeding will do to you) and a ton of tinted moisturiser because it has an SPF, and I have very delicate skin. Gray says that it’s all the fake tan I use, and I have to laugh because of the amount he pinches when he’s got a show on: he’s a personal trainer and he’s into bodybuilding, so he really slaps it on. Honestly, he looks like a mahogany sideboard – we both get such a laugh out of it. I think laughter really holds a relationship together.

The third girl is a bit mousy, to be honest, with her pale skin and that dull brown hair, and it’s not helped by her baggy stripy T-shirt and leggings. God, she must be roasting in them. I’ve lived in shorts this summer and I plan to keep it that way. Denim cut-offs and a vest top when no one’s looking, and a linen pair with a shirt for when I have an audience – which isn’t often, I can tell you. Still, I’m determined not to be downhearted because I know that negative talk is a shortcut to feeling down.

I notice that the pretty catalogue mum is reaching into a wicker basket and pulling out a package wrapped in tinfoil, opening it and offering it around. So, she must be the organiser, I think. There’s always one in any group. Normally, it’s me because I like to have everything in order. What is it Ma used to say? ‘A place for everything and everything in its place.’ Well, that’s me!

Mousy – let’s call her that – says, ‘Oh, gorgeous,’ taking something from Pretty and I can’t help feeling that she’s trying too hard to be liked. I can see that because I was that soldier!

I really want to go over to them and find room in that little circle of theirs for me. To be honest, they look as if they don’t want company, but I think if I don’t talk to another adult human today, I’ll go out of my mind.

It’s not that I don’t like being a mum – I do – but, God, the loneliness. Gray says that it’ll get better when I find my feet in Rathgar, but quite honestly, I’m not sure. I thought we’d made it when we bought the place: never in my life would I have thought that I’d live there, in a big, solid red-brick with a gravel drive and a climbing rose above the front porch. If Ma and Da could see me now, I often think – even though they’re both long gone. When I think of all ten of us bursting out of that little house – it’s no wonder we can hardly stand the sight of each other now, when it was dog-eat-dog for so long, scrapping and squabbling over every little thing.

I don’t think I really fit in in Rathgar, though. I want to, but I stick out like a sore thumb. For a start, everyone else on the road is about eighty, and they don’t seem all that friendly. The elderly man next door is a reverend, and he gets very cross every time Gray parks the car on the path outside his house. If he’s even six inches across the reverend’s driveway, he gets yelled at about driving ‘bloody tractors’. Gray laughs, of course, because he’s really easy-going, but it drives me mad.

Anyway, there’s only so much of being on my own all day that I can take, in spite of the giant TV in the corner and the Sky, and Chloe of course – I could stare at her little face all day, but she’s not exactly chatty. So when I see the women, I want to cheer, to jump up and down and yell, ‘Be my friends!’ I’m not sure how to approach them, though, so I do another circuit on the grass, passing by the little group in the process. I have to tug Poppy’s lead to pull her along: she has to inspect every last inch of grass and, for a Maltese, she has a bark that would make your ears bleed, but she’s very sweet really – if you’re not another dog, a man with a bag or a hat, or an old lady with a walking stick. Gray calls her ‘Jaws’, but he loves her really.

Now, Mousy is saying something so softly, the others have to lean into hear her. Pretty puts a hand on her arm, nodding away, and Scandi tilts her head to one side, nodding too, a smile on her face. They look so … intimate, so close, and I feel a jolt in my heart when I see them. Then Scandi looks up and sees me, and I suddenly realise that all three of them are looking at me. I give a silly little wave, cursing myself, then Scandi gets up and comes towards me. For a second, I debate making a run for it, but then I remind myself that I haven’t done anything wrong, so I just wait, hand on the handle of the Silver Cross.

‘Hi,’ she says brightly.

‘Hi,’ I reply. I’m waiting for her to tell me that the grass is out of bounds or something, but instead, she bends down to pat Poppy, who gives a little growl. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘She’s just a bit temperamental.’ That’s an understatement: I’ve seen her attach herself to a man’s trouser leg and refuse to let go, even when I emptied a bottle of water over her. I’m so embarrassed, but I needn’t have worried because Scandi leans back and gives a big laugh.

‘You have some growl for a dog of your size,’ she says to Poppy. ‘But you’re kinda cute.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ I say again. ‘She’s a total embarrassment.’ Then I remind myself not to begin a friendship by apologising. Gray says that I have the right to take up space on the planet and to stop constantly saying sorry, but it’s a habit at this stage – after so many years, it’s ingrained. ‘My husband bought her for me as an engagement present. I’d have been happy with a big, fat diamond, but …’ My voice trails away as I will myself to shut up – but to my relief, I see that she’s laughing again.

‘I love that,’ she says. ‘A killer dog for an engagement present. Very funny.’

I hadn’t realised that it was a joke – I really would have preferred a bigger engagement ring, but Gray was just getting his business going at that stage and he couldn’t afford it – but I laugh along with her.

‘So …’ she says. ‘I’ve seen you in the park a few times.’

‘Oh, yes, I love it here,’ I say. ‘It’s such an oasis. I’m new to the area and it’s the one place I can get to easily. Everything seems such a major expedition with a baby.’

‘I know,’ she says easily, peering into the pram. ‘It took me four hours to get out of the house this morning.’ Poppy gives another growl, but she ignores her completely. ‘Aww, look, Tommy, isn’t she cute?’ She dandles her own baby in front of Chloe and, to be honest, I’d rather she didn’t because the little one doesn’t look all that clean, but of course, I say, ‘Thanks, yours is lovely too.’ He isn’t lovely, really, with his mismatched T-shirt and shorts, his grubby little feet, but it’s funny how we all think our baby is the cutest, isn’t it? I love dressing Chloe up in her little pink dresses and matching headbands, even though the poor little thing is bald as a coot!

‘Thanks, they love a good compliment – don’t you, pet?’ And she pops a kiss on the baby’s head. Who’s ‘they’? I wonder. Then she says, ‘Would you like to join us? It’s nice and shady where we are.’

I look at her for a moment, wondering if she’s joking. I’ve been here before, making a fool of myself when I think someone’s invited me somewhere and getting all silly about it, before I realise that they didn’t mean it or they meant someone else – never me.

‘Are you sure?’ I say. ‘I mean, it’d be great because it’s so hot and I feel like I haven’t spoken to another adult in about a year—’ I stop dead then. For God’s sake, I chide myself, will you ever shut up?

But Scandi just laughs. ‘I know exactly what you mean. Come on over and have a glass of lemonade. Gracie’s made enough to slake the thirst of an army.’ She turns and walks over to the other two, me following behind, the wheels of the Silver Cross bumping across the grass. ‘Make a bit of room there, girls, will you?’ she says.

Mousy moves back, brushing the tartan picnic rug with her hand, giving me a small smile. She looks friendly enough, but Pretty’s face is closed and she’s sitting bolt upright, the way Poppy does when she’s about to strike. She doesn’t make an effort to move until Scandi says to her, ‘Push up, Gracie!’

In response, Gracie shifts about half an inch to the left and I go to sit down. Fake it till you make it, Elise, I think, as I extend a hand to Mousy. ‘Hi, I’m Elise.’

‘Jane,’ Mousy half-whispers, taking my hand in hers, then, after a hesitation that makes me say something quite rude in my head, Gracie offers me a limp handshake, which I respond to with a firm grip, the way Da taught me. A limp handshake is the sign of an untrustworthy character, he always said.

‘And I’m Lina,’ Scandi says, reaching out and squeezing my hand firmly with hers. I like Lina, I think. She’s straightforward.

‘I can’t believe my luck, finding you all like this,’ I say. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve needed some adult company over the past couple of months. Sometimes, I think I’m going a bit mad for lack of conversation!’ I hope they don’t think that means that I don’t love Chloe – she’s everything to me – but it’s true. When Gray comes home after a day at the gym or out in the park doing his personal training of celebs – because they like people to snap them working out, would you believe – I nearly talk the hind leg off him. He says he wouldn’t have it any other way, but sometimes I see him eyeing the telly, wondering if he can watch Man United in the Champions League to escape my nattering. Honestly, that man is like an open book.

Jane tilts her head to one side, smiling sadly. ‘I know what you mean. Sometimes I feel that there’s no one else in the world besides me and Owen, and he’s not exactly a conversationalist.’ Gracie gives her a curious look but says nothing, and I wonder what that’s about. Jane reaches into the pram and pats the little feet of her baby – a big bruiser of a boy who is kicking vigorously – as if she’s apologising to him, and she gives me that small, sad smile again.

‘I think the main thing is to get out and meet other mums for support and friendship. I find that they’re the only ones who really understand,’ I say.

‘I know,’ Lina agrees. ‘It’s like being part of some club. The thing is, the initiation rite involves at least twenty-four hours of excruciating pain, blood and guts, not to mention the tears and the begging for drugs. It’s not exactly the Masons or the local golf club. Imagine if you had to go through labour to join – wouldn’t that be funny?’

‘Some golf club,’ Jane says. ‘I’m not sure I’d want to be a member.’

‘Well, it’d be a great deal less exclusive than your average club,’ Lina says. ‘Maybe that’d be a good thing. No more rich old men in golfing jumpers.’ At this, she looks slyly at Gracie.

‘Golf clubs are exclusive for a reason,’ Gracie says.

‘And what’s that reason?’ Lina leans forward now, on the attack, and Gracie leans slightly back. Poppy starts growling again and I have to give her a little tap on the nose to shut her up.

‘The reason is, Lina, to make contacts and have a good social network,’ Gracie says frostily. ‘My dad found it very important for his business.’

‘Safe from the plebs – I get it.’ Lina is laughing, but I’ve a feeling she doesn’t think Gracie is very funny. I’ll bet these two fight all the time. They have the look of two women who want to dominate. But there can only be one alpha in the pack, I know.

There’s a moment’s deathly silence while Gracie fingers the tiny diamond on a chain around her neck and Jane looks dreamily into the distance. Lina has stopped laughing now and there’s a muscle working in her jaw. Uh-oh.

‘So, where did you all meet?’ I ask.

The tension is broken, as Jane says, ‘Antenatal classes,’ and gives a little eye-roll, while the others burst into laughter.

‘What is it? What did I say?’ I ask, mystified.

‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ Lina says, reaching over and patting me on the hand. ‘Excuse us, Elise, we’re not normally this rude. Allow me to elaborate. We all booked this private antenatal class because, Lord knows, the public ones weren’t good enough for us …’ Gracie clutches her necklace again at this, which must be her signal of disapproval. ‘They were run by this complete nutcase called Oona, who believed in shamanic rituals and herbal purges to purify the soul. I have no idea why she was certified to run antenatal classes, unless giving birth in a clearing in the jungle is your thing.’ There is laughter at this.

‘Do you remember the day she did childbirth?’ Gracie says.

‘OMG,’ Lina says. ‘Will I ever forget it? She had this plastic pelvis and a doll, and she re-enacted the whole process, from contractions to the birth, complete with moaning and groaning.’

‘I thought Jake would pass out.’ Gracie smiles. She eyes Jane when she says this, and Jane blushes and looks at the ground.

‘I know!’ Lina says. ‘I used to think I was missing something, not having an other half, but let me tell you, I was never so glad to be by myself. Do you remember Sandra’s partner, Dennis? He collapsed on the sofa and Oona had to revive him with one of her weird concoctions.’

‘That’s men for you,’ Gracie says. ‘No backbone whatsoever.’ She gives a little giggle to show she doesn’t really mean it, but I see the way she quickly squeezes Jane’s hand, and I wonder what the story is there.

‘Is Jake your husband?’ I ask Gracie.

There’s a moment’s hesitation and I curse myself inside for asking my usual nosey question, but Gracie says, ‘No,’ then, quietly, ‘we only met a year and a half ago and we were just going out for a few months when I fell pregnant. It all happened so quickly that we never really got around to it. We seem to be doing everything backwards,’ she adds ruefully.

Now, it’s Jane’s turn to squeeze Gracie’s hand. ‘I think that’s very sensible when you don’t know each other that well. Having a baby is stressful enough without a wedding on top of it. Sometimes, I wish I’d waited. It should be mandatory these days.’

I look around to see who is going to soothe Jane, reassure her that it’ll all be fine, but instead, there’s another embarrassed silence. Even chatty Lina is quiet. Meanwhile, my mind is spinning. I didn’t book antenatal classes privately – maybe I should have?

I have to say, I’m surprised that Gracie isn’t married, though. She looks like the type that would have the big splash with three days in some stately home in west Cork.

‘I got married in the Maldives,’ I say into the silence. ‘It was a great way of getting away from all the stress.’ The word ‘stress’ was an understatement. If I had a penny for all the rows it caused in my family. My two younger sisters, Siobhan and Margaret, nearly tore each other’s hair out in their fight to be bridesmaids and Paddy, the eldest boy, sulked for weeks when we didn’t ask him to be best man. Gray was right. It was the only thing to do, to get away from the whole lot of them and leave them to fight it out. The only person from my family who ended up coming was Sharon, but then, she’s always been above all of that stuff, stuck in her books, making something of herself. She’s a barrister now, which is a miracle, when the only place she had to study was a cubby-hole on the landing. She was my only bridesmaid, and Gray’s brother, Shaun, was his best man, and if we both felt a bit sad about that, we knew we were doing the right thing.

‘The Maldives,’ Jane says breathlessly. ‘What was it like?’

‘Oh, it was magical,’ I say. ‘Just so easy, you know? No shoes, just really casual, flowers in your hair, that kind of thing. We all went to this gorgeous restaurant after for a barbecue, and honestly, it was the nicest day I’ve ever had. No meringue dress, no endless posing for photos, no bagpipes or speeches. Look,’ I say, scrolling through my phone to show her a photo of Gray and me on the beach, holding hands, the blue sea behind us.

‘Oh, wow,’ Jane says quietly. ‘I kind of wish I’d gone for something like that – I did the whole meringue … it was for my mam and dad, really.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to put my foot in it.’ Jane sits back and blinks, and Gracie gives me a dagger stare. How was I to know? I think, wanting the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

But then Lina looks at the photo and says, ‘Jeez, Elise, is that your husband? What a hunk!’ There’s more laughter then, as Lina demands to have another look and says she wants a copy so she can pin it on her wall and then she says she’s objectifying him, which makes them all roar. Honestly, Lina’s very funny.

When the laughter dies down, Lina says, ‘Well, I propose a toast. Has everyone got a full glass?’ She looks at me and I shrug. I haven’t been offered anything.

Gracie looks as if she’s swallowed something unpleasant, but she opens up her wicker hamper and takes out a pretty glass bottle with a china stopper in it and a plastic wine glass, which she hands to me, filling it with the cloudy, fizzy lemonade. It tastes lovely – tart and sweet at the same time – and I wonder how she had time to make it with a baby around.

‘It’s delicious,’ I say, lifting my glass to touch theirs. ‘I’d love the recipe if you have it.’

Her eyes fix on mine for a second, then she gives a smile. ‘Of course.’ But she doesn’t volunteer anything further. Well, be like that, I think.

‘Here’s to our newest arrival,’ Lina says, clinking her plastic glass against mine, her lovely, strong features creasing into a smile.

‘Yes, welcome, Elise,’ Jane adds, clinking her glass against mine in turn, and, after a hesitation that is so long it’s a bit obvious, eventually Gracie joins in.

‘Hear, hear,’ Lina says, taking a big swig. ‘Ah, that’s more like it. All it’s missing is a drop of vodka.’

‘I’ll remember to bring that next time.’ Gracie smiles.

‘Here’s to a summer to remember,’ Jane suddenly says, immediately putting a hand over her mouth, as if she’d said the wrong thing, but Gracie puts an arm around her and gives her a little hug.

‘It will be, Jane – one way or another,’ she adds.

I’m really not sure what she means by that, but I’ll ignore it. Overthinking is a bit of a weakness of mine: I read things into situations and I get myself tied up in all kinds of knots. This time will be different. I say, cheerfully, ‘I’ll drink to that!’ I raise my glass to theirs, the plastic giving a soft ‘thunk’ as I tap each of their glasses.

A summer to remember. Honestly, I can’t believe my luck.

Lina

God, what are those two like? Lina thought, as she walked home from the park in the evening sun, Tommy in a sling in front of her, little head bobbing. Gracie was unbearable, with her silly statements, her certainties delivered with that bashful expression on her face, as if she didn’t really mean them, which she totally did. And the way she’d behaved when Lina had brought the new girl over to them to say hello – like a Victorian lady in need of smelling salts. Well, serve her right that they had a new member of the gang. It might teach her to be a bit more tolerant. And as for Jane … she was nice, Lina knew, but did she have to just go along with everything? Could she not speak up for herself once in a while? Conventional, that’s what her mother would have called them. There truly was nothing worse than conventionality to Mama. She used to make a game of it when Lina was little, pointing out the housewives with their dumpy skirts and sensible shoes, clomping up the streets of Enniscorthy, mouths tight with disapproval. One of these hated women would go by, scarf tucked under her chin, eyes darting sideways as she walked past as if they were both wild animals, and then Inge would point and say loudly, ‘See? That’s the kind of woman you must never, ever be. Their only expectation in life is to look after their stupid, lazy husbands.’

These women didn’t understand what Inge was saying, because she always insisted that she and Lina only spoke her native German to each other, even when they were in public – as if they didn’t stand out enough in that little town – but their shoulders would stiffen as they walked towards the butcher’s or Mr Gleeson’s fruit and veg shop, and Lina would look after them and wish that she belonged to some other, nicer mother. At the same time, she did feel sorry for them, with their string bags and their tightly belted coats. They couldn’t possibly be happy, she thought, with all of their ‘shopping and praying’, as Mama put it, but she couldn’t help wondering if they were lonely, like she and Mama were. She used to see them in her mind’s eye, sitting around the dinner table, Mum, Dad, all of those children they had, fighting over the last roast potato, and she’d feel a slight fluttering in her chest.

Mama and she would sit on either side of a cracked Formica-topped table and eat brown rice, which tasted of cardboard, that Mama had to order from a health food shop in Dublin, and they would talk about whatever topic had been selected for conversation that morning. Mama didn’t like shallow, easy stuff like telly: she preferred to talk about dismantling the patriarchy, beating the sexist Irish men at their own game, whatever that meant. Lina remembered not being sure about it because of the lack of sexist Irish men in their own lives. Or any men, for that matter. Lina’s dad was, Mama told her, a ‘sperm donor’ and not part of their lives. Maybe that’s why she’d gone the same way, she thought, selecting a sperm donor of her very own: Seamus, who spent his entire days monitoring other people’s depravity on the video-sharing website they both worked for but whom Lina had selected because he was reasonably intelligent, as a couple of conversations with him at the water cooler had informed her and a long chat at the Christmas party, the two of them the worse for Alan from accounts’ lethal Christmas cocktail. Seamus was ‘nice’, she supposed, but she’d really picked him because, even though he was a year older than her, he looked like a teenager, a bit unfocused, a bit easy-going, and she’d reckoned he’d be unlikely to protest when she told him about the results of their one-night stand.

She’d known that selecting a real, live man instead of an anonymous donor at a clinic could get complicated, but she’d wanted to be able to see what she was getting, so to speak, to be able to look her son or daughter in the eye eighteen years from now and tell them that, yes, their father had been, if not a fine human being, at least a recognisable one. Seamus had seemed to fit the bill perfectly – and he had the added bonus of being sane, in spite of his job, and he’d laughed at a couple of her jokes. Appearances could be deceptive though, Lina thought now as she wandered into Mr Abdallah’s corner shop, selecting two red onions and two bright-red peppers, wondering whether if she made a double helping of fried rice it might do her for tomorrow’s lunch as well. She hadn’t been expecting him to be quite so persistent.

As she selected a three-pack of tuna, because one came free, her phone buzzed. She sighed, debating whether or not to look at it: she couldn’t bear it if it was Gracie with one of her cheery messages. She always had to follow every meeting with a ‘you guys’ text, full of exclamation marks, telling them how much she valued their friendship, and if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d attach some stomach-churning bit of ‘mummy wisdom’ at the bottom. Sure enough, there it was: Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart. Yuck. Besides, all Gracie really wanted was to remind them who was in charge of their little group – still. Maybe it was no bad thing that the group had a new member – might shake things up a little, Lina thought, shoving the phone back in her trouser pocket. Perhaps Gracie was just jealous. Elise certainly looked glamorous: those smart linen shorts and that shirt that was clearly designer, not to mention the hair. Mind you, what about Elise’s bejewelled nails, Lina thought, trying to walk past a giant packet of Custard Creams that only cost sixty-five cent. No, she told herself, that sixty-five cent might come in handy. She still had five days to go before the best day of the week – when her maternity benefit would appear in her bank account. If she had any money left over after the rent and the six-to-twelve-month clothes that Tommy needed, as well as actual food for the week, she’d buy them as a treat. Thank God for the savings she’d somehow managed to squirrel away when she was working. Her boss, Jeff, in Download wasn’t exactly generous, but that’s what a dodgy contract got you. Welcome to the flexible economy, Lina thought grimly.

‘How is my favourite child today?’ Mr Abdallah seemed to lie in wait for Tommy, making sure that he was on the shop floor, stacking shelves with jars of spices and odd-looking crisps, so that he could pull himself into a standing position, groaning about his knees, and pretend to be astonished to see them both there. As if a day could pass without a trip to Mr Abdallah, Lina thought, as he pinched Tommy’s little cheeks and exclaimed that he’d never seen a more beautiful child. He would purse his lips and make funny noises and would be rewarded with a gummy smile. ‘A child sent from heaven,’ he would say, shuffling in his black plastic sandals behind the counter, barking something in Urdu at his son, who would be leaning against the cigarette display case, eyes glued to his phone.

Mr Abdallah was small, with a completely bald, round head, like a bowling ball, and deep lines, like the furrows in a field, etched into his forehead and extending from the outer corners of his eyes. His uniform of choice, a short-sleeved check shirt worn loose over khaki cargo pants, did not disguise his stomach, nor his shortness of stature. By contrast, his son was movie-star handsome, a tall greyhound of a man with a mane of thick, black hair and huge brown eyes. He seemed to be completely unaware of his good looks, regarding with bored disdain the local girls who would come in and cluster around the magazine rack, giggling.

Now, Mr Abdallah packaged up her peppers and onions and the cans of tuna, adding a couple of peaches and a large bar of chocolate into the paper bag at the end, almost as if it was an afterthought. How was it he knew that she’d want something exactly like that? she thought. Something chocolatey and sugary to console herself. He must be a mind-reader. But ever since he’d discovered, to his horror, that Lina had no husband, he considered it his mission to look after her – if she’d said she had leprosy, he could hardly have looked more alarmed. Lina smiled at the memory now, as she said thanks and made small talk, agreeing with him that it was indeed a hot summer. Of course, she’d never mentioned Seamus and his role in things – she had a feeling Mr Abdallah