Lead filled Maeve’s stomach as she approached Patrick Reilly’s imposing doorway on Monday morning. Her heart gave a little jump when she realised that it was 17th March, St Patrick’s Day, and she quickly crossed herself as she shut out the happy memories of this day in the past. She had seen enough now to know that the O’Donnells had never been more than poor Irish peasants - but there had been a joy in that frugal existence which had compensated for all the things they didn’t have - or miss, until their mother died. Even then, love had filled their home; love which had been endangered by the strains of their recent lives. But Maeve was determined that in the end their love for each other would be the bedrock of their survival in Glasgow. All of them.
Argyle Street was busy: hammers ringi
