a lot of them at times; we used to get stopped at checkpoints when we were out in the car with my uncle. Once we were caught up in a bomb-scare.â
âAnd youâre telling meâ, Niall says, âthat you would let Lucy go to a place like that?â
Fintan stares at his son.
âDonât be ridiculous,â he says. âOf course I wouldnât. Not in a million years.â
âPoor old Granny,â Niall says again. âEveryoneâs always so unfair to her.â
Now they can hear Colette downstairs, calling them to dinner. As Fintan stands up, Niall hands him the two photographs, with a last lingering glance at the sepia portrait and a somewhat wistful laugh.
â Où sont les neiges dâantan , eh Dad?â
 But Fintan has no idea what he is talking about.
Â
Â
EIGHT
As she drives across town, Colette remembers walking down Grafton Street with Fintan all those years ago, and him suddenly saying, âLetâs go in here a minute,â and dragging her into Switzers. She didnât know why â generally he hated shopping, and she was more baffled still when he walked purposely through to the cosmetics department, heading for the counter of one particular concession. Colette had felt ill at ease then, had wanted to leave, because she found such places intimidating, with their perfectly groomed and condescending staff; was always afraid of being bullied into buying an expensive pot of face cream that might help her complexion, but would ruin her modest budget.
Fintan walked fearlessly up to a sales assistant of exceptional beauty. She was wearing a white coat, with the name of the brand she was selling embroidered on it in red. Before Colette had a chance to read the name on the small gilt name badge, pinned above the embroidery, the woman spoke, and she recognised the inflection of her voice, the familiar tones, and was astonished to realise who this must be. Fintan confirmed it immediately.
âColette, this is my sister Martina; Martina, Colette.â
What did Colette expect? Amused pity. But it wasnât what she got, although Fintan told her later, years later, that he too had feared that that might be the response. When they were teenagers, sabotaging his chances with girls had been a favourite pastime of Martinaâs: sniggering when he brought home his latest crush, pulling faces and crossing her eyes when the object of his affection had her back turned, and generally undermining his virtually non- existent love life in the way only a younger sister can.
âI like your scarf,â Martina said to her, surprising Colette that she might admire anything about her attire. âItâs real silk, isnât it?â
âI think so. I got it for Christmas.â As soon as she said this she thought herself foolish; it was like something a child might say, but again Martina didnât choose to be condescending.
âItâs a great colour, very unusual. Anything here I can interest you in?â and she gestured to the display of creams and cosmetics before her. âAnything youâd like?â
âOh no, I never wear make-up,â Colette replied and at this Martina did give a sly smile.
âI suppose Fintan told you he doesnât like women wearing make-up, eh? All men say that and itâs guff. They donât realise that you are wearing make-up, if you put it on properly. This stuff really is good, and you have to have a few little treats, I insist.â She took a small carrier bag and pulled out a drawer below the counter, started to select what seemed to Colette like a great many samples and sachets, which she dropped into the bag.
âHow are things with you anyway, Fintan?â she asked as she worked at this task. âHowâs college? Have you taken Colette over to meet our lovely mother yet?â Even Colette, whose purity of heart had inured her against most irony, even she could sense the