Ireland, 1950. Happiness was not to be trusted. This was a lesson that Frances Howe had learned at a very young age. Eleven, in fact. No, she was 10, about to turn 11, because she had been at Catherine Woodworth’s birthday party and Catherine was the first in her class to leave the childish ways of 10 behind. For the girls, the idea of turning 11 had become confused with how wealthy Catherine’s father was. This was a party unlike any they had attended before. The function room of Langton’s Hotel had been hired for the occasion. There had been little pastry pots stuffed with chicken in a sauce, and on the way out, each child had been handed a party bag with a pencil and a bag of sherbet. Eleven seemed to be a world of untold sophistication.
When the party had finished at six, Frances gathered in the lobby with her friend Norah Dean, along with three other girls that Norah Dean’s father had agreed to give a lift home. While the others chattered excitedly to Mr Dean about the fizzy drinks that had been served by actual waiters, Frances had
