Seventeen

For a second, which seemed like an hour, Breda stared at the man, unable to move, mesmerized, paralysed by fear.

‘Get a move on,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t have all day. Neither do you!’

His voice jerked her back to reality.

Without taking her eyes from him – she daren’t do that – her right hand moved towards the till. She pressed the ‘No Sale’ key and the drawer opened.

‘Just the notes,’ the man repeated. ‘As I said, you can keep the change.’

It was as she took the notes from under the spring clips that a fierce and sudden anger hit her and, she thought afterwards, common sense deserted her. How dare he? He wasn’t going to get away with this. She would stop him, though she had as yet no idea how.

Slowly, deliberately, her head a whirl of thoughts which she somehow had to get in order, she transferred the pound and ten-shilling notes to her left hand. There was a thick wad of them. It had been a busy day.

‘Hurry up!’ the man hissed. There was an edge to his voice.

In that moment she knew what she would do. It was there, staring her in the face. She gave no thought to the danger. Anger, and the absolute necessity of not showing it, of keeping calm, drove fear from her mind. The only thing she could not control was the thudding of her heart and the trembling of her hand as she held out the money towards him.

Then, at the same time as he moved to take the wad of notes from her she quickly grasped the long, stiff cardboard tube which lay at her right hand on the counter, and thrust it sharply towards him.

Her aim was good. The tube caught him unawares, hit him on the wrist. She saw the flash of panic in his eyes. The gun dropped to the floor and went off with a deafening report. Then the man started to run, the notes still clasped in his hand.

He made for the door, and she ran after him, but since she had to get out from the other side of the counter he was ahead of her. It was the steps, the short flight of steps which led to the street door, which were, literally, his downfall. He tripped and fell, sprawled against them.

Breda had found her voice, and the revolver shot had brought people running, running and screaming.

‘Stop him! Stop him!’ she shouted above the noise.

The man was getting to his feet. She was almost on him, but an assistant from Menswear was there before her. He grabbed the man who, halfway to his feet was unbalanced, and pinned his arms behind his back.

The notes lay scattered on the floor. Breda instinctively stooped to pick them up – and as she did so everything and everybody faded in front of her. The last thing she knew was that Mr Stokesly was there, and that it was all right and he would take care of everything.

‘She’s coming to!’

The voice came to Breda from a far way off, then moved nearer and became merged with its owner, the store nurse. Behind the nurse stood Mr Stokesly and Miss Opal, both looking anxious. At first Breda understood nothing of this. She thought perhaps she was dreaming. Then suddenly she remembered, and what she remembered was the noise of the shot. She sat up quickly, clapping her hands over her ears.

‘What happened? Was someone hurt?’

‘Miraculously, no,’ Miss Opal said. Her voice was grim.

‘The bullet went into the front of the counter,’ Mr Stokesly said. ‘No real harm done.’

‘And there is nothing for you to worry about,’ Miss Opal said. ‘The man has already been taken to the police station and, thanks to you, all the money has been recovered. If you are all right, then everything is all right.’

‘Oh, I am,’ Breda said. ‘I’m sure I am!’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Miss Opal said. She could hardly say the same for herself. She felt shattered at the thought of what the consequences might have been.

‘I shall send you home in my car,’ she said. ‘And unless you are totally fit you are to take the day off tomorrow. But if you are well enough to come in, then the doctor will be here and I should like her to take a look at you.’

Mr Stokesly, with Miss Opal’s firm backing, insisted on accompanying Breda home, though she told him she would be quite happy just to sit beside the chauffeur. He stayed there only long enough to tell her aunt what had happened.

Josephine listened with horror. ‘Oh, Breda love, I can’t believe it! In Leasfield! In Opal’s! What’s the world coming to?’

Even Brendan was shocked. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, love?’ he asked Breda.

He called me ‘love’, she thought. Everyone called everyone love in the West Riding, but Brendan had never before used the word to her, not once.

‘I’m quite all right thank you, Uncle Brendan,’ she said.

‘Breda was extremely brave,’ Mr Stokesly said. ‘Foolish, without a doubt, but very brave.’

‘He must be a madman,’ Brendan said. His voice was rough with indignation. ‘If I had him here . . . He should be locked up!’

‘He is now,’ Mr Stokesly said. ‘And I don’t doubt will be for a long time. But I’ll not stay any longer. I’ll leave you in peace.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Breda said. ‘I’m sure I’ll be back at work.’

‘Wait and see,’ Mr Stokesly cautioned.

‘Well!’ Josephine said when Mr Stokesly had left. ‘What a terrible thing! You’ll not feel like going out tonight, will you, love? A bite to eat and early bed I’d say.’

Only then did Breda remember that this was the evening she was to go to a meal and to the theatre with Graham.

‘Oh but I do!’ she said at once. ‘Just a cup of tea, then I’ll get changed. I feel fine, honestly I do.’

It was not strictly true. She felt shaky – but wild horses wouldn’t make her miss the evening. Wasn’t the table booked at the restaurant and the tickets for the theatre? And she would be wearing her ribbon dress.

Halfway through her cup of tea – she had just put it down on the table – Graham, who had neither knocked at the door nor paused on his way through the hall, burst into the kitchen. He bounded towards her, pulled her to her feet, took her in his arms and held her as if he would never let her go. And in front of everyone.

‘Oh Breda!’ he cried. ‘Oh Breda my love, you could have been killed.’

‘Well she wasn’t, was she?’ Grandma Maguire said in flat calm. ‘As far as I can see she hasn’t a mark on her.’

No-one took any notice of her. There were more interesting things going on.

‘You must never, ever do anything like that again,’ Graham said fiercely. ‘You must promise me.’

‘Sure I will promise you,’ Breda said. ‘I’m not thinking it will happen to me again. Not twice in a lifetime.’

It was not easy to get the words out, for he was still squeezing the life out of her, but it was wonderful all the same.

‘Shouldn’t you go to bed?’ Graham asked anxiously.

‘That’s what I’ve been telling her,’ Josephine said.

‘Are you trying to avoid taking me out for the evening, then? Is that the way of it, Graham Prince?’

‘Of course it isn’t, Breda love. You know that.’

‘Then there’s no way I’ll go to bed. And if we don’t get a move on we’ll be late for everything. Give me fifteen minutes to get ready. You can wait right here.’

‘Well, maybe an evening out will take your mind off things,’ Josephine said doubtfully.

‘What sort of gun was it?’ Brendan asked when Breda had gone upstairs.

‘I don’t know,’ Graham said. ‘I don’t know any of the details. I rushed here the minute I heard.’

By the time Breda came downstairs Graham had ordered a taxi to take them to the restaurant. ‘No travelling on buses for you this evening, my girl,’ he said.

The restaurant was something the like of which Breda had never seen, not that she had seen many: lighted candles on pink-clothed tables, shining silver, waiters immaculately attired. She was pleased she had dressed up, and sorry for Graham because he had had no time to go home and change out of his work suit.

‘I don’t care two hoots about that,’ he said. ‘It’s enough to be here with you, safe and sound.’

If the food, when it appeared, lacked anything because of rationing, that was compensated for by its presentation, though in fact Breda would gladly have settled for baked beans on toast. She was floating on a cloud as pink as the tablecloths, and it had nothing to do with the excitement of the afternoon and everything to do with Graham.

There was no longer any doubt in her mind about his feelings for her. Hadn’t he made them as plain as plain, and in front of everyone? And that being so there was surely no longer any need to hold back her own.

They ate through the meal, not talking much. Breda scarcely tasted the food, which was a pity because it looked very expensive. That and the theatre would take every penny of Graham’s ten pounds.

When they had finished eating and were waiting for coffee, Graham leaned across the table and took Breda’s hand in his, stroking it gently.

‘Oh Breda!’ he said. ‘What would I have done if . . . ’ He faltered.

‘If what?’

‘If anything had happened to you. Just as I’ve found you.’

‘But it didn’t,’ Breda said gently. ‘Grandma Maguire was right about that. I’m here, all in one piece and as good as new!’

‘Breda,’ he said, ‘I love you. I didn’t know how much until I nearly lost you.’

Her head was filled with light and music. ‘Oh Graham!’

‘I love you,’ he repeated.

Neither of them noticed the waiter place the coffee on the table.

‘And I love you,’ she said. ‘Oh, I do love you. But I think I always knew it, right from the first minute. Right from the bread-and-butter pudding. I shall never hate bread-and-butter pudding again!’

‘What shall we do?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean, what shall we do?’

‘I want to tell the world,’ Graham said. ‘I want to stand up on my chair right now and tell everyone in the restaurant “I love Breda O’Connor and she loves me!”’

‘You’re daft!’ Breda said happily.

‘I know. I want to shout it in the streets. I want to tell everyone in the store . . . ’

The smile left his face. ‘But we can’t,’ he said. ‘We can’t tell anyone, not even our families.’

‘I think my family might have guessed,’ Breda said. ‘I mean, the way you behaved. So why can’t we tell anyone?’

She didn’t particularly want, as he did, to shout it to the world, but of one thing she was certain: she wanted to tell her family, the people she loved. She wanted to write to Mammy and tell her everything.

‘I want us to be engaged,’ Graham said. ‘Oh Breda, I want us to be married, but that’s impossible, perhaps for a long time.’

‘I understand that,’ Breda said. ‘But we could be engaged.’

‘And we will be,’ he said. ‘But we shall have to keep it secret.’

‘Why?’

It was not that she particularly minded the secrecy, at least for a little while. She was happy to hug the knowledge to herself, to share it only with Graham, to glory in the warmth of it. But how could that last? It would surely leak out, especially if Graham behaved as he had in her aunt’s kitchen earlier this evening.

‘If anyone in the store knew, then Miss Opal would find out. I’ve already realized she gets to know everything in the end,’ Graham said. ‘Then she’d feel obliged to tell my father and the odds are he’d whisk me back to London.’

‘Oh Graham! Oh no, I couldn’t bear it,’ Breda cried. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘Apart from all the stuff about us being too young – you not eighteen until next month, me not yet twenty-one – I’m here to learn a job. Nose to the grindstone for the next year. He’d not allow anything to interfere with that. If it came to it he’d simply send me somewhere else. And I’m dependent on him, Breda, at least for the time being. Please say you understand, my darling!’

‘I . . . I think I do.’ A few minutes ago it had all seemed so simple. Now it no longer was.

‘But I want us to be engaged,’ he said. ‘Breda, will you promise to marry me, even though we have to wait? But for now it will have to be a secret from everyone – and I do mean everyone. Could you bear that?’

She was being appealed to by the man she loved, and only she could answer his appeal. She felt a sudden surge of power, confidence, and with it the strength to do whatever he asked.

‘I could and I would,’ she answered. ‘As long as we love each other, nothing else matters.’

‘And you’d wait? As soon as I’m independent and have my own job we’ll be married, I promise you.’

‘Oh Graham,’ Breda said. ‘Sure, I’d wait for you! What else would I be doing?’

‘You couldn’t wear a ring,’ Graham said. ‘But I shall give you something to show we’re engaged. I shall give you—’ He thought for a moment. ‘I shall give you a fine gold chain to wear round your neck. It wouldn’t be seen by the rest of the world, but we would know. It would be special to us.’

I would like to show the rest of the world, Breda thought. I would be so proud. But if it wasn’t possible . . . and wasn’t there after all something special and exciting about holding such a wonderful secret?

‘Yes, I’d like a gold chain,’ she said.

‘Then we’ll choose one in Akersfield on our next half-day,’ Graham promised. ‘Oh Breda, I do love you. Don’t ever forget that.’

‘And don’t forget that I love you,’ Breda said.

He looked at his watch. ‘We’ll have to leave,’ he said, ‘or we’ll miss the theatre.’

Afterwards, when she looked back over the evening, Breda could remember nothing of the play they had seen, except that they had enjoyed it and Graham had laughed a lot. Her own mind had been on all the things Graham had said to her in the restaurant; that he loved her, wanted to marry her, that they were engaged, however secretly.

In the taxi home he took her in his arms and kissed her lovingly. At number 52 he paid off the cab and stood with Breda in the gateway, then embraced her again.

‘Oh Graham,’ she said. ‘How can I not tell Auntie Josie and the others? They’ll only have to look at me!’

‘We can’t,’ he said firmly. ‘Not your family, not mine, not yet. But as soon as my training year is over, then I shall take you to meet my parents. I know they’ll love you.’

But in the store next morning Breda was quickly made aware that people were looking at her for a reason which had nothing to do with the secret she carried. She was a heroine!

Even Miss Craven was not grudging in her praise, though it mostly took the form of self-recrimination. ‘I blame myself entirely,’ she said. ‘If I had not left you in the lurch . . . ’

‘But you didn’t,’ Breda argued. ‘You left me for a perfectly good reason. How were you to know what would happen?’

‘Supposing the worst had occurred,’ Miss Craven said. ‘Just supposing . . . But no! It’s too awful to contemplate. But if it had it would have been entirely my fault.’

‘It would not,’ Breda assured her. ‘And in any case, it didn’t. I’m hale and hearty, not one bit the worse for it.’

Miss Craven preferred not to be reassured. There was no stopping her. To everyone who visited the department – and there was a constant stream of people from every part of the store, all wanting to hear the tale at first hand and to see the site of the bullet – she said the same things.

‘You would think she was the heroine of the story’, Betty Hartley said, ‘instead of you. Oh, you were so brave, Breda!’

Miss Craven’s behaviour didn’t worry Breda. She was so deeply happy inside herself that nothing else could possibly matter. Her only difficulty was in keeping her happiness hidden.

Halfway through the morning Miss Opal sent for her. ‘Are you quite sure you feel well enough to be here?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely,’ Breda said.

‘Then first of all I wish to thank you for what you did,’ Miss Opal said. ‘You were resourceful and courageous. And secondly, I have to tell you that you must never, ever, attempt such a thing again. You were not only resourceful and courageous, you were extremely foolish and stupid. While I expect loyalty from my staff I do not expect, nor do I want, them to risk their lives for Opal’s store. Do I make myself quite clear?’

‘Quite clear, Miss Opal. I’m very sorry.’

Why should she be apologizing to me, Opal asked herself? And yet the reprimand had been in order.

‘Then we’ll go on to other matters,’ she said. ‘In the first place both the Leasfield Courier and the Akersfield Record have been on to me. They telephoned me at my home last night. They would like to interview you. I told them what I knew, but they want your side of the story, a first-hand account. Now you needn’t do this if you don’t want to, there’s no compulsion, but if you do agree to it I suggest you see them here in my office.’

With great restraint she forbore to say that a column in the local papers would be better advertisement for Opal’s store than anything money could buy. She truly didn’t want to put pressure on the girl.

‘I don’t mind at all,’ Breda said.

She thought how wonderful it would be if she could, at the same time, announce her engagement – then swiftly put the thought from her.

‘The next thing is that I am thinking of moving you from Fabrics,’ Miss Opal said. ‘Perhaps only temporarily. We shall see about that later.’

‘Moving me? Have I not . . . ?’

‘You have done well enough there, but it’s coming up to Christmas. Fabrics will not be quite so busy from now until the January sales, but Display are desperate for help. There’s the Christmas Grotto which must be opened on Saturday and is only half finished. There are Christmas displays to be mounted all over the store, not to mention the windows. You showed some flair in the matter of the royal wedding and I think you might be useful to Mr Sutcliffe.’

It might also help the girl to put yesterday’s episode right out of her mind, Miss Opal had said, when broaching the subject to Mr Stokesly earlier, if she were to be physically distant from Fabrics. And wasn’t that also, she thought privately, a good way of presenting it to Miss Craven, who would not like the move.

‘So what do you think, Miss O’Connor?’ she asked.

‘I would like that very much,’ Breda said. ‘When . . . ?’

‘Today. You’re needed as soon as possible. Well get the newspaper interview over, then I want you to see the doctor just to check that you’re all right. After that I’ll hand you over to Mr Sutcliffe.’

Everything moved with speed. Breda returned to Fabrics, wondering how to tell Miss Craven that she was to be moved on, only to find that Mr Stokesly had already done it. In any case, Miss Craven was still occupied in relating her version of the story.

The reporters came, wrote down Breda’s statement, then took a photograph of her standing beside the till and a second one with her hand outstretched to indicate the bullet hole. The doctor saw her and pronounced her fit but foolish. Never, in so short a time, had she been called foolish so often!

She had a quick dinner of sausage and mash with Graham, but this time every seat at their table was taken, so there was no chance of conversation, other than to give him the news of her transfer.

Breda’s first sight of Jim Sutcliffe was of him at the top of a ladder which leaned against the wall in the drab corridor which was to be transformed into the Magic Christmas Grotto. A second man held on to the foot of the ladder while a third, close by, hammered nails into sheets of plywood. Wood, cardboard, coloured paper, string, pots of paint and brushes were everywhere, in what appeared to be a glorious muddle.

‘I’m looking for Mr Sutcliffe,’ Breda told the young man at the foot of the ladder.

‘Then look up,’ the man said. ‘That’s him, up aloft! Young lady to see you, Jim!’ he called out.

‘Is she pretty?’ Jim said, not turning his head.

The young man looked directly at Breda. ‘Very!’

‘Then I’ll be right down!’

Back on the ground, Jim Sutcliffe was revealed as a short, round man with bright blue eyes and a balding head. What hair he still retained was as red as Breda’s own.

‘I’m Breda O’Connor. Miss Opal told me to report to you.’

He held out his hand. ‘So you’re the young heroine, then? We’ve never had a heroine working with us before, have we, lads? Come to that, we’ve never had a young lady. So no rough talk, no swearing. We shall have to mind our p’s and q’s!’

‘Indeed you will not,’ Breda said. ‘Haven’t I been brought up with three brothers, and not one of them minding what they said in front of me?’

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ Jim Sutdiffe said. ‘And I hope you’re a hard worker as well as a heroine. There’s a lot to be done in no time at all.’

‘I’m more of a hard worker than a heroine,’ Breda said. ‘So if you’d like to tell me what to do, Mr Sutcliffe . . . ’

‘Well, for a start you can call me Jim – and this is Bill and that’s Martin.’ He waved a hand at the other men. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here. We leave all that fancy stuff to the sales staff. Any road, you can start by sorting things out, getting a bit of order into this mess.’

‘How do you want me to do it?’ Breda asked.

‘Nay lass, that’s up to you,’ Jim said. ‘Just sort it out so that we can find what we want, when we want it, and no time wasted.’

It took all afternoon, but by the end she had reduced chaos to order. Paint pots were ranged together, like colours against like; fabrics and papers were separated and folded, cardboard stacked against a wall. Everything was visible and to hand.

Towards the end of the afternoon Graham came into the corridor, carrying two newspapers.

‘May I speak to Miss O’Connor?’ he asked Jim Sutcliffe.

‘Make it sharp,’ Jim said. ‘She’s busy.’

‘I just wanted to show her the local papers,’ Graham explained. ‘I’ll leave them with her.’

‘Why don’t we all have a look-see?’ Jim suggested.

He took the newspapers from Graham and read out the headlines.

‘“Shopgirl Heroine Foils Gunman!” And what does the Courier say? “Brave Breda Halts Hold-up!” Yes, that sounds like the Courier.’ He handed the papers to Breda, then turned to Graham.

‘Thank you, young man,’ he said dismissively.

‘Is he a friend of yours?’ he asked Breda when Graham had left.

She hesitated. ‘Yes. Yes, he is.’ And so much more, she thought.

‘You do know who he is – rather, who his father is?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘Yes I do.’

‘You want to be careful,’ advised Jim. ‘Mind what you say in front of the bosses.’

‘But he’s not a boss,’ Breda objected.

‘He’s on the way,’ Jim said. ‘He’s the boss class.’

‘I’ll be careful,’ she promised. ‘But I’m sure he’s harmless. He seems quite nice.’

‘He’s not one of us, that’s all,’ Jim said. ‘Now if you’ve finished the rest you can just sweep that bit of floor and we’ll call it a day. You’ve done very well.’

‘The only thing is,’ Breda said to Josephine that evening, ‘I hope he isn’t going to use me just as a dogsbody, clearing up after the men. I’m sure that’s not what Miss Opal intended.’

‘You have to learn to walk before you can run,’ Grandma Maguire said.

‘I don’t expect he will,’ Josephine said. ‘It’s early days yet.’

‘Not really,’ Breda said. ‘There’s a mountain of work to get through before the Christmas rush starts.’ But if he didn’t let her take a real share, she thought, she would have to have it out with him. Politely, of course.

As it happened, she did not need to do that. The very next day he set her on to what she thought of as real work, though not before he had found her a pair of overalls and told her to change into them.

‘I reckon yon black dress needn’t see the light of day this side of Christmas. You’ll not want to get it messed up wi’ paint and glue.’

From then on it was all go, hard at it all day and sometimes late into the evenings. Following Jim’s outlines, she painted designs on the walls, she draped materials, made giant cardboard flowers, blew up balloons, scattered artificial snow and silver dust. Bill and Martin constructed Father Christmas’s cave, in which he supposedly dwelt with Mother Christmas, but which was in reality used to store spare light bulbs, assorted tools and the sixpenny parcels Father Christmas handed out to the children who came in droves.

Late on the Friday night before Saturday’s official opening of the Grotto, at which Miss Opal herself would turn the magic key, they stood back and surveyed their finished work. It was indeed Wonderland, Breda thought. She had never seen anything like it and she felt a glow of pride and pleasure that she had had a part in it.

‘Aye, it’s not bad!’ Jim Sutcliffe allowed. ‘Not bad at all!’

Miss Opal, accompanied by George Soames, the General Manager, came to inspect it.

‘You’ve excelled yourselves!’ she said. ‘I really do think it’s the best we’ve ever had. Congratulations to all of you!’

‘Shall I see you home?’ Bill said to Breda when they were ready to leave. ‘It’s a bit late.’

‘I’ll be all right, thank you,’ she said.

She couldn’t tell him that Graham had wanted to wait to see her home, or at least meet her after she had left. It was she who had reminded Graham that if he did that kind of thing their secret would soon be out.

‘Then if you’re sure, I’ll just see you onto the bus this end,’ Bill offered.

The time flew by towards Christmas. Although the Grotto was finished, there were plenty of jobs to be done in the rest of the store: Christmas trees, fairy lights, paper chains, fancy lampshades – anything for which material could be found. The window displays were designed, and mostly carried out, by the small team of window dressers, but Breda was frequently called upon to help with the more mundane tasks: fetching and carrying, clearing up; sometimes, under supervision, cleaning and refurbishing the seasonal models – reindeer, robins, rabbits, snowmen – which were unearthed each year from the stockrooms.

In the Grotto, which drew great crowds, Joe Ackroyd, the Senior Commissionaire, made a splendid Father Christmas, and plump Miss Hargreaves, from Haberdashery, was given her usual temporary promotion to Mother Christmas, though it was well known that she and Joe Ackroyd did not get on. It was a matter of temperature as well as temperament. While he sweated under his voluminous robes and long white beard, she felt the cold.

‘The draught in this place is cruel,’ she complained to Breda, who had been sent to scatter fresh snow and glitter before the Grotto opened for the day. ‘Don’t anyone be surprised if I go down with pneumonia!’

Influenza, not pneumonia, laid her low in the last week before Christmas, at a point when the queues for the Grotto were at their longest and everyone in the store was occupied in taking money and tying up parcels.

‘I shall have to have someone,’ Joe Ackroyd said to Miss Opal when she made her daily visit. ‘I can’t be expected to sell the tickets, talk to the children, organize the parcels and hand them out.’

‘Of course you can’t!’ Miss Opal agreed.

Thus it was that Breda found herself wearing a red robe which would have gone around her twice and a fur-trimmed red hood which constantly fell over her eyes.

Miss Opal’s lips twitched when she saw Breda at work next day. ‘This won’t do at all, Miss O’Connor,’ she said. ‘Someone in the workrooms must alter it to fit, at once. Otherwise you’ll trip over yourself and break a leg!’

It was a week in which Breda scarcely saw Graham. There was no time for dinner in the canteen; a snatched sandwich and a cup of tea behind the scenes was all that could be managed. In the evenings she was dead tired and, she reckoned, dull company.

Graham was to go home to his family for Christmas, travelling on the morning of Christmas Eve.

‘You’ve got to come out with me the night before,’ he said. ‘Even if we only have a coffee. I shan’t see you for the best part of a week!’ He had permission to be away until the Monday after Christmas.

‘I’ll miss you so much!’ Breda said.

Would he forget her in his home in Surrey, with his family, his friends, parties, outings? How could he help but compare it all to her family in Akersfield?

‘I shall miss you, my love,’ Graham said. ‘Don’t think I won’t. But this time next year it will be different. Who’s to say I won’t be taking you home to meet my family?’

‘Or me taking you to Ireland, to meet mine,’ Breda said. ‘Oh Graham, it seems so far ahead, such a long time.’

‘It will pass,’ Graham said.