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quietly.
    ‘But what about us?’ said Daniel, his voice breaking, as if he had not yet taken seriously his sister’s marriage or its possible ramifications. ‘We can’t lose Mum and Mags. I mean, what are we supposed to do?’
    Letty made to speak and found she had no words.
    Across the table, Murray had been sitting in silence, his hand entwined with his daughter’s. ‘We, son, are to be glad.’
    ‘What?’
    Murray smiled reassuringly at his daughter – a smile that Letty could not believe he truly felt. ‘We are going to be glad, because Margaret is going to be with a good man. A man who’s fought for his country and ours. A man who deserves to be with our Margaret just as much as she deserves him.’
    ‘Oh, Dad.’ Margaret dabbed at her eyes.
    ‘And more importantly,’ here his voice rose, as if to stave off interruption, ‘we should be glad as anything because Joe’s grandfather was an Irishman. And that means . . .’ he laid a roughened hand gently on his daughter’s expanded belly ‘. . . this little fellow here is going to set foot, God willing, in God’s own country.’
    ‘Oh, Murray,’ whispered Letty, her hand pressed to her mouth.
    ‘Brace yourself, lads,’ muttered Colm to his brothers, and began to pull on his boots, ‘we’re in for an evening of “Oh Danny Boy”.’
    They had run out of places to put wet washing. The indoor dryer was loaded to the point where it threatened to pull down the ceiling; damp linen hung from every indoor hook and cable, pegged to hangers hooked over the tops of doors or laid flat on towels on work surfaces. Margaret hauled another wet undershirt from the bucket and handed it to her aunt, who fed the hem into the mangle and began to turn the handle.
    ‘It’s because nothing dried yesterday,’ Margaret said. ‘I didn’t get the stuff off the line in time so it was soaked again, and I still had lots more to do.’
    ‘Why don’t you sit down, Maggie?’ Letty said, eyeing her legs. ‘Take the weight off your feet for a minute or two.’
    Margaret sank gratefully into the chair in the laundry room, and reached down to stroke the terrier that sat by her side. ‘I could put some in the bathroom, but Dad hates that.’
    ‘You know you should rest. Most women have their feet up by now.’
    ‘Ah, there’s ages yet,’ Margaret said.
    ‘Less than twelve weeks, by my reckoning.’
    ‘African women just drop them behind a bush and carry on working.’
    ‘You’re not African. And I doubt anyone “drops” a baby like they’re . . .’ Letty was conscious of her inability to talk of childbirth with any authority. She continued wringing in silence, the rain drumming noisily on the tin roof of the outhouse, the sweet smell of newly drenched earth rising up through the open windows. The mangle squeaked, a geriatric creature forced unwillingly into effort.
    ‘Daniel’s taken it worse than I thought,’ Margaret said eventually.
    Letty continued to work the handle, grunting as she hauled it towards her. ‘He’s still young. He’s had a lot to deal with this past couple of years.’
    ‘But he’s really angry. I didn’t expect him to be angry.’
    Letty paused. ‘He feels let down, I suppose. What with losing his mum and you . . .’
    ‘It’s not like I did it on purpose.’ Margaret thought of her brother’s outburst, of the words ‘selfish’ and ‘hateful’ hurled at her in temper until the flat of her father’s hand brought the diatribe to an abrupt halt.
    ‘I know,’ said Letty, stopping and straightening. ‘They know it too. Even Daniel.’
    ‘But when Joe and I got married, you know, I didn’t think about leaving Dad and the boys. I didn’t think anyone would mind too much.’
    ‘Of course they mind. They love you.’
    ‘I didn’t mind when Niall went.’
    ‘That was war. You knew he had to go.’
    ‘But who’s going to look after them all? Dad can just about press a shirt or wash the dishes, if he has to, but