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I had made in a hurry the night before. I had left it aside because I had already put it in the oven before I realized that I had put no sugar in it. Rhubarb tart is bitter beyond belief without sugar, and so I made our guest tea and deliberately placed a slice of the rotten tart in front of him. My father took none, as he was not in the habit of eating in front of anyone, save his family. I thanked God for that, as he would have thrashed me if he found out what I had done.
    James ate every last crumb and declared it the most delicious tart he had ever experienced. I was about to test his endurance and acting skills with another slice, when my father stood up and said:
    “Take James and show him around the place, Bernadine.”
    My father always called me Bernie.
    James was quiet—sheepish, I think now with the benefit of hindsight. I remember that he tried to take my hand, and I pulled it away with the utmost rudeness to deter him. I must have had some inkling of what lay ahead. I gestured my arms at the hens and the hay shed and we were back at the house within ten minutes. My parents had cleared out and I made busy around the kitchen, rolling up my sleeves and walloping pots to make it clear it was time for him to leave, which he did.
    When my father came back in and found James gone, he went mad—shouting that I was a useless strap. Still I didn’t understand, until my mother ushered him out and sat me down at the table. Her voice was gentle, the sharp, busy tone gone out of it. She looked worried.
    “Do you like James?” was all she asked.
    I knew then that they had come to an arrangement, although I could scarcely believe it of them—or, for that matter, him.
    *
    The sordid details only came out later. How James had come calling with the intention of walking me out and my father had pinned him down to a marriage commitment there and then. After the family had shamed itself in not being able to dowry me to Michael Tuffy, the old bastard was afraid he would be stuck with me forever. James and his mother took me on with no dowry, and they never told a soul or sinner in the parish to save my family name.
    James had written and signed an informal contract with my father that afternoon, buying me like cattle, though no money changed hands. A worthless piece of meat, that was how I felt myself. This man didn’t love me, nor I him. My parents clearly did not love me; otherwise they would never have done this terrible thing.
    When Michael returned to America, I thought my heart had torn asunder. My loving him, my missing him, that terrible wrenching longing to see him came upon me again that day, and with terrible force.
    I ran from the kitchen, and walked fast across five fields and five ditches to a place we called Purple Mountain. It was a small hill, no more than a mound of heather, and below it on the other side was the “lake.” In reality, it was a pond of water that changed from a large brown puddle to a deep pool depending on the rainfall and the time of year. Beyond it stretched miles of black, treacherous bog. No one owned this land and no one cut turf from it, although there were plenty of stories of men who had tried and disappeared. We were told they were dragged down to hell itself by the bony paws of the demons that lived beneath the bog’s surface. It was to deter us playing there, but also played on our terror, as the demons surely didn’t choose their prey at random.
    I was full of sin and had gone past caring. Michael Tuffy and I had sinned ourselves senseless on several occasions. It was that, and the knowledge that I could not endure the rest of my life without him, that made the fact of our not getting married so terrible. We had been so certain of our fate together that we had enjoyed each other’s bodies.
    On the day of my father’s and James’s arrangement, I stood on the top of that filthy mound of earth and I thought about flinging myself into the lake. There had been heavy rainfall for