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stood to go. Then he stopped and pushed his free hand deep into the pocket of his jeans.
    ‘No, no,’ Peggy said. ‘I’ll get you your meal first. We can sort it out after.’
    Frank nodded at her.
    ‘Will you be eating, Garda O’Dowd?’ she looked at Michael.
    He shook his head. ‘No, no, Peggy. Thank you.’
    ‘Right. Well, why don’t you gentlemen sit over there, and I’ll be right out with your meal, Frank.’
    Peggy noticed Michael’s eyebrows arch at her familiarity. She smiled to herself. Let him think her forward. She left Carla in the bar and went to plate out some stew for Frank. She’d put it on one of her mother’s Aynsley dinner plates. They looked nicer than the everyday ones.
    Peggy hummed to herself as she stirred the pot on the Aga, looking for some good-sized pieces of meat. It wasn’t often there were interesting strangers in The Angler’s Rest. And she couldn’t help feeling that this weekend was going to be a little more interesting than usual.

SEVEN
    Despite the warmth of the day, autumn could not be denied. The evening light had all but faded by the time most of the fishermen had gone home, and the local regulars had taken up their usual places in Casey’s. The old sash windows were still open, and the cooler air mixed with the smell of smoke and kegs and the stew; a comforting smell of home for Peggy. They would normally have a fire lit at this time of year, she thought, looking at the blackened grate that hadn’t seen a spark for what must be four months now. It had been such a summer; they just hadn’t needed it. She might light one tomorrow night. It would be nice to have it lit.
    ‘You should have lit the fire.’ Carla’s teacher-like intonation assailed Peggy’s ears. Her sister stood behind her, sorting coins in the opened till drawer. ‘It gives the place a bit of life.’ She shivered. ‘And God knows it could do with a bit of life.’
    Peggy heard it slam shut. She decided to ignore her sister.
    ‘Although,’ Carla elbowed her in the ribs, ‘yer man over there,’ she tipped her head towards Frank, who was sitting with an empty dessert plate before him, a newspaper in one hand, and a mug of coffee in the other, ‘he’s a bit of life. No?’ She elbowed Peggy again.
    Before Peggy could retort, the door opened, and a diminutive elderly man walked into the bar.
    ‘Oh, Jaysus, well here’s the walking dead,’ Carla said under her breath, and went off around the bar to clear Frank’s table.
    The man walked in slowly through the porch, his eyes only leaving the flagstone floor briefly to acknowledge two younger men seated with pints at a low table. He was dressed for colder weather, wearing an old tweed jacket over a wool shirt and threadbare jumper. His trousers were two sizes too big, gathered in at the waist by a length of rope. Strands of white hair poked out from under his plaid cap, which he removed and hung on a hook next to the fireplace.
    ‘Young wan,’ he nodded to Peggy as he approached the bar.
    ‘Coleman,’ she said. ‘It’s getting cooler at last out there now, I think.’
    ‘’Tis that, child. ’Tis that.’ Coleman sat up on a stool and crossed his arms. Peggy pulled him a pint, and he watched the contents of the glass settle. After a moment, she filled it and placed it on the bar in front of him. He sat up straighter, and rubbed the white stubble on his chin, regarding the pint as if it was something he had never seen in his life before. Then he lifted it and drank some back, stealing a glance to his right as he did, to where Frank was seated with his paper. Peggy watched his ritual. She noticed how his white hair curled like a baby’s around his ears. He could do with a visit to Mrs. Byrne’s himself, she thought. The idea made her smile. She knew it was more likely that he’d get his brother to cut any stray locks with a kitchen knife.
    ‘That’s a fine pint.’ He nodded at Peggy, wiping the froth from his whiskers. ‘A fine