The following Sunday, Maeve and Finola turned up at St Mary’s Church in Abercromby Street for 9 o’clock Mass. They had heated water in an old tin bath, and cleaned and tidied themselves as best they could, before returning to the ritual that had informed their entire lives in Ireland before their father died.
The building smelled of new stone and paint but was comfortingly familiar in its fittings. The Latin Mass was an endurance test for Maeve, who longed for it to be over so that she could speak to someone about the school. Responses and hymns, as familiar as breathing, were uttered without her conscious will.
As the building emptied, Maeve, with Finola by the hand, approached one of the men who had served at communion, standing by until he noticed them.
He was red-faced and bald, wit
