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have cared what happened to me, but Maude was the most important person in her life.
    I attempted to reassure her. ‘I’m the one who’ll be left out, Maude. You’ll be fine. You’ve nothing to worry about.’
    ‘But Esther died suddenly. I don’t know if her will was up to date, if she even had a will.’ Maude had retied her apron, thumbed a mark on the kitchen table.
    Mr Bergin now shuffles the papers and makes a tidy stack on the table. His smile is expectant as he regards us. ‘Well, ladies, I do wish we were meeting under happier circumstances, but Mrs Perry has been exceptionally clear in her wishes, so this won’t take too long.’ He pats the papers. ‘Let us commence. Maude Mary Gilmartin?’
    Maude nods and tucks an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear. Her bun is tightly wound at the back of her head. She keeps her eyes on Bergin.
    ‘Eva Catherine Perry?’
    This is ridiculous. He’s not selecting a jury.
    ‘Eva?’ He raises his eyebrows.
    I pull at the thread on the tablecloth. The pipes gurgle upstairs. One of the window shutters hasn’t been secured and it creaks slightly. This house is full of noises. ‘Here.’
    ‘Good, good.’
    I want to focus on what this man has to say, but it’s so difficult. The room is too warm, despite the open windows. The hot air hangs heavy and thick around us. The flowers Maude picked earlier are already wilting. Two petals lie on the sideboard like two yellow commas. Mr Bergin talks about the will and its codicils. I rub my temples and sip the tea Maude has placed in front of me. I pick at the fruit cake.
    ‘... and most importantly, the house.’
    Details of my mother’s modest savings have slipped by me, but I am alert now.
    The house is for me. The house is for me under the strictest condition that Maude will live here for as long as she likes or until her death. As though I would suggest anything else. Maude covers her face with her hands. ‘Thank you, God, thank you, Esther,’ she says, over and over. The room is flooded with her relief. It pools on the polished wood of the table, runs over the edges. I reach across and touch her arm. She grips my hand tightly and squeezes her eyes shut. Thank you, God.
    I don’t think God has much to do with it to be honest, but for once I choose to keep this particular view to myself. I don’t think God has much to do with anything, really.
    I should have reassured Maude earlier. The one person my mother had looked after was Maude. Maybe it was because they were both widows, or maybe it was something more, but my mother had loved Maude. It made her less of a monster I suppose, although it didn’t deter her from fucking me up completely.
    Isaac used to complain that I lived at an emotional remove from him. How I laughed at his Central Park West psychoanalytical pretensions. I was having an affair with a married man, wasn’t I? Not affair, my love, was his reply. A relationship. We’re having a relationship.
    It turns out, after all that, that it was only an affair. For him, anyway. And how I’d loved him.
    Yet now I have a house in Dublin, where I don’t particularly want to be, and I can’t sell it because of Maude. So I suppose my mother did get one last dig at me. This house is not the keeper of a happy childhood. It does not sing out its welcome. I don’t rest easily here.
    We say our goodbyes to Mr Bergin on the doorstep and watch as he climbs into his shiny black car and backs it carefully out onto the main road.
    Maude still looks stressed. I take her arm gently.
    ‘Come on, Maude. Make me a cocktail.’
    I know it’s far too early to start drinking, but maybe I’ll just have one. I need one, if only to help me smoothe out the tangles in my head, all those shrieking dervishes that won’t let me be.

CHAPTER 6
    S o. My choice is clear. New York, or something constructive in Dublin. A job, preferably. Something short-term. My mother’s funeral was nearly three weeks ago, and now I’m in the