Mary, in her own words

What did the house you grew up in smell like?

Turf, mostly, and whatever was on the range. On a Saturday it was bread, because Mammy baked for the week. She’d let me do the cross on the top with a knife and then tell me I’d done it crooked.

I can still smell it if I think about it hard enough. I never told her that.

What is one of your happiest memories from when you were small?

The shop on the corner. Daddy would give me a penny on a Sunday and I’d stand there for ages deciding. Mrs Kenny never once hurried me.

What did you usually spend the penny on — and did you ever share it?

Bullseyes, always bullseyes. And no, I did not share them. Eileen will tell you different but Eileen is a liar.

What was your first job, and what did you do with the first wages?

The post office in town, behind the counter, at sixteen. Uncle Tom got me in — he knew the postmaster from the football.

I gave the whole envelope to Mammy the first week. She gave half of it back and told me to buy a coat that wasn’t Eileen’s old one.

What do you remember about the day you left for Dublin?

Daddy drove me to the train and didn’t say a word the whole way. At the station he shook my hand. My own father shook my hand like I was the bank manager. I laughed about it for years, and then I didn’t.

What do you remember about your grandmother Kate?

Small, and frightening, and she smelled of Sunlight soap. She kept a ten-shilling note in her prayer book for emergencies and nobody ever found out what counted as one.

What did your mother teach you, Eileen?

Answered by Eileen, Mary’s sister

To leave a place cleaner than you found it. And that Mary would always get the bigger slice, so you might as well cut it yourself.