Her kitchen was small, and she had painted it a rich yellow to brighten up the quarry-tiled floor. She took a tea towel from a little press beside the Aga and covered the potatoes. They had burst their creamy jackets, and their floury insides smiled out at her. Jack grew great potatoes. She could hear his voice now: “Fine plury spuds breaking their hearts laughing.” Every first Saturday on his way through the village to confession, he brought her a bag of potatoes, vegetables and home-made jams. Over the years he had taken the place of the father who had died when she was young, and in more recent years even filled the gap left by Nellie, and no one else understood her sense of loss after Ned as well as Jack. She checked the meat in the top oven and put the potatoes and vegetables into the bottom one to keep warm. Her Aga was very kind to dinners that had to be kept warm for long periods, which often happened in her job and with David, who could be kept late at school or delayed after a match.
