“Michael, you shite,” Bridie mumbled, picking up clothes thrown on the bedroom floor. She was gathering what she could of the family’s clothes to wash before laundering that of the Smyths.

“Why can’t you put your dirties in a pile?” she asked the lump in the bed, “And ya gobshite, smells of horse shite and,” she sniffed, “yer own. Mary and Joseph, Michael, what ya been doin’?”

She shook the clothes, intending to fold them over ...