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from the world.
    It had been a sunny day, like today, and when she’d sat beside the dog – there was just about room for her, even then – she’d found she was at exactly the right height to dangle her bare feet in the cool water. The pup had pressed against her, his tongue lolling, looking up into her face. Statia had almost imagined he looked proud.
    See the fine place that I found for you, she’d imagined him saying. Aren’t I a grand dog?
    And she’d almost replied to his imagined question, and reassured him that he was. The little place – its peace, its privacy – had enchanted her from the start. When she was younger, and had less work to keep her busy, she’d often gone there. Nowadays – even before this week – she seldom found the time. As soon as she heard of the need for someone to go to Caffertys’ she pictured the river as it must be today, sparkling and rippling in the hot sun, gurgling cool over the stones below the little bridge. She imagined the trout rising, leaving ripples on the spangled water. The idea of sitting there for half an hour, in her secret, private spot, with the sun shining down and her feet trailing in the water, and no-one looking for anything off her, or bossing her, had filled her with a sudden hungry yearning. She should have known her Ma would see it on her face – her Ma could read her like a book.
    There was no need to be embarrassed, she told herself. Hadn’t Ma said she understood? She even approved. It was a rare thing to do something nice that your Ma approvedof. Statia felt suddenly free. She took a deep breath and relaxed. The day was hers. The house, with its stormy man and big bostoons of brothers, could look after itself for the afternoon.
    It was a lovely day. The birds sang in the roadside hedges. The air was alive with the buzzing of bees and flies. The ass clopped along the road at his own pace, and Statia lost herself in dreams. After a while she came to the lip of Mulligan’s Drop and started down the steep hill. It was very quiet, and over the roll of the wheels and the clop of the ass’s hooves you could hear the water of the Rasheen clucking in its stony bed. The ass dug in his heels against the slope, no longer pulling the cart but pressing back against it as he descended the straight road. Statia got down and took hold of his harness, speaking softly to him and yanking back when he seemed about to give in to the weight of the cart and pull forward.
    â€˜Come on now, a mhic ,’ she said mildly. ‘We’re nearly down. You’re doing grand. Good lad!’
    The ass’s ears twitched at her soft tones. He shivered with the strain. At least he wouldn’t try and stop here, with the weight pressing him on.
    At the foot of the Drop the road levelled out before climbing very slightly for maybe ten yards towards the hump-backed stone bridge. The water in the river chuckled and gurgled, inviting her to dawdle. But Statia got back up on the cart and went on, humming to herself. She’d seennobody since leaving home except for one old man driving a few dozy-looking cattle. He’d saluted her briefly, raising the switch in his hand to the peak of his tattered cap. Statia had greeted him in return. She didn’t recognise him, but she knew that men like this weren’t what her mother meant by ‘strangers’. This was only a farmer like themselves.
    * * *
    At Caffertys’ Statia was welcomed. Simon Cafferty had bought three sacks of hen-meal only the week before.
    â€˜I usually only buys the two,’ he said, ‘but I got a good price on these, and I knew the extra one wouldn’t go astray.’
    He was glad to lend one to the Mulligans, and Statia had to assure him that one would be enough. Simon even loaded the sack in the cart for her while Statia was given tea and bread and butter and had a chat with his wife in Caffertys ’ kitchen.
    â€˜I’ll