‘Nope.’

Craig ran behind Clodagh, as she Tasmanian-devilled into the en suite bathroom, and noisily jostled a toilet-brush around the bowl.

‘Why?’ he demanded.

‘Because,’ she hissed, irritated at the stupidity of the question, ‘because the cleaning lady is coming.

‘Molly, hurry,’ Clodagh roared in the direction of Molly’s elephant-friezed room. ‘Flor will be here any minute.’

The thought of staying in the house while Flor did her stuff was beyond the pale. Not just because all Flor wanted to talk about was her womb, but because Flor’s very presence made Clodagh feel horribly middle-class and exploitative. She was young and able-bodied – having her house cleaned by a fifty-eight-year-old woman with problems up the frock was indefensible.

She’d tried staying in for a couple of Flor’s visits, but ended up feeling like an outlaw in her own home. It seemed that every room she went into, Flor arrived seconds later, girt about with vacuum cleaners and varicose veins, and Clodagh never quite knew what to say.

‘Ah…’ followed by an uneasy smile. ‘I’ll just, er, move, ah, out of your way.’

‘Not at all,’ Flor would insist. ‘Stay right where you are.’

Only once had Clodagh taken Flor at her word, and sat flicking through an interiors magazine, pulsing with shame, while Flor huffed and puffed with the Hoover around her feet.

Flor charged five pounds an hour. Guilt compelled Clodagh to pay her six. So uncomfortable did she feel that Clodagh couldn’t bear to even see Flor, always making it her business to be well gone before she arrived.

‘Molly,’ she bellowed, thundering down the stairs. ‘Hurry!’

In the kitchen, one eye on the clock, she grabbed her pile of wallpaper samples and scribbled a note to Flor on the back of one. In a couple of strokes she drew a Hoover – an upstanding rectangle with a twirly lead snaking from it. Then she sketched a few squares and drew rainfall coming down on top of them. Next she drew two arrows – one pointing to the pile of shirts on the table, the other pointing to the duster and Mr Sheen next to them.

Now Flor would know that Clodagh wanted her to hoover, to wash the kitchen floor, to iron clothes and to dust and polish.

Anything else? Clodagh did a quick zoom around her head. Next door’s cat, that’s what. She didn’t want Flor letting him in like she did last week. Tiddles Brady had made himself so comfortable he was practically watching telly with the remote control in his paw when she’d got home. And the minute Molly and Craig saw him they fell in love and roared crying when the cat was promptly escorted off the premises. So, speedily drawing a circle for his face, on top of a bigger circle for his body, Clodagh finished the quick portrait of Tiddles by doing his ears and whiskers.

‘Get me a red crayon,’ she ordered Molly.

Molly duly returned, offering a blunt, yellow pencil and a Banana-in-pyjamas.

‘Oh, I’ll get it. If you want anything done properly, you have to do it yourself.’

Talking angrily to the air, Clodagh rummaged madly through the painting box and found the crayon, then – with no little satisfaction – gouged a big, red X through the cat. Surely Flor would understand that?

Her last drawing done, Clodagh sighed heavily. She’d love a cleaning woman who could read. It had taken her weeks to find out that Flor was illiterate. In the beginning, she used to leave her all kinds of complicated notes, requesting Flor to do specific things like take the washing out of the washing machine when it finished its cycle, or defrost the freezer.

Flor never complied and although Clodagh used to lie awake at night fuming, she was too mortified to take her to task. Despite the problems, she didn’t want to lose her. Cleaning women were like gold-dust. Even the crap ones.

Not to mention that Clodagh had no faith in her own ability to command respect in this situation. She had visions of herself trying to berate Flor in a voice that quavered with lack of conviction, ‘Now look here, my good woman, this simply won’t do.’

In the end she forced Dylan to be late for work one morning so he could have it out with Flor. And, of course, she ‘fessed up to Dylan, who was sympathy itself. Dylan had what they called Good People Skills. And, on Dylan’s suggestion, they came to their current arrangement where Clodagh drew her instructions to Flor.

Between the guilt and the drawings, it almost seemed easier to do the housework herself. Almost, but not quite. Despite everything, Clodagh savoured the one morning a week when the pressure was off her. Taking care of the house was like painting the Forth Bridge, only worse. She was never on top of things, and the minute something was done it needed to be done again. No sooner was the kitchen floor mopped – no, wait! Even while she was mopping it – they were skidding across it in their shoes, etching stripes of mud through her good work. And her linen basket seemed to be like the refillable pint of mythology. Even after she’d done three loads of washing and to her knowledge laundered every item of clothing in the house, her warm glow of achievement disappeared the instant she went into her bedroom – for the linen basket which had been empty mere minutes previously would be mysteriously once more full to overflowing.

At least she didn’t have to worry about the garden. Not because it was nice. On the contrary, it was a muddy shambles, the grass flattened and sparse due to being overrun by children, and there was a great bald patch beneath the swing. But she was absolved from having to do anything about it until Molly and Craig were grown up. Just as well. She’d heard terrible horror stories about gardeners from hell.

After several false starts – Molly wanted to wear her hat, Craig had to go back in and get his Buzz Lightyear – Clodagh hurriedly piled them both into the Nissan Micra. As soon as she put the key in the ignition, Molly screeched, ‘I have to go wee-wee.’

‘But you’ve just gone.’ Clodagh’s exasperation was heightened by the fear of running into Flor.

‘But I have to go again.’

Molly was only recently toilet-trained, and the novelty of her new-found skill hadn’t worn off yet.

‘Come on, then.’ Roughly, Clodagh bundled Molly from her car-seat and hustled her back into the house, turning off the alarm she’d only just set. As predicted, despite much contorting of her face and promises that ‘It’s coming,’ Molly couldn’t summon any wee-wee. Back to the car again and away they went.