It wasn’t the idea of the Station that was really at the core of her annoyance; she dreaded that the Larkins, who owned the land next to theirs, would be coming. Her stomach coiled into knots when she saw any of that family. They would probably be next to be chosen for the Station and, knowing the Larkins and their propensity for showing off, it would be a big hooley.

For months now, her parents had been preparing for the great honour of hosting their family and neighbours for the religious celebration in their home. Brigid’s father and her two younger brothers had whitewashed the house, painted the gate and pillars, tidied up the yard and garden, while their mother had organized a massive spring clean. Every nook and cranny in the house had been cleaned. The windows were sparkling. The smell of fresh paint permeated the air. Holding the Station meant best foot forward for everyone in the family, Elizabeth told her daughters when they grumbled about the extra work they had to do, as well as their usual chores of feeding hens, and calves, and bringing fresh water from the well, two fields away, come hail rain or shine.

Brigid picked her satchel off the floor and rooted for the tuppence-worth of sweets she’d bought for her younger brothers after getting paid on Friday. It was a little treat they looked forward to. She’d bring the sweets over to the bog for them, to cheer them up. She’d stopped buying a treat for Imelda since her sister had started being so spiteful to her before Christmas. Brigid couldn’t understand why her general snippiness had reached a whole new level. ‘She’s so mean to me, Mam. She says really nasty things to me,’ she complained to her mother.

‘Ah take no notice of her. You were like that at her age. Turning into a teenager makes girls moody. The pair of you have my heart scalded with your humours and rows. You should be like me and Peg – best friends,’ Elizabeth sighed.

‘We’ll never be best friends like you and Auntie Peg,’ Brigid said morosely.

‘Let me give you a piece of advice: count your joys instead of your woes, count your friends instead of your foes. You and Imelda will need each other sometime, and that’s the truth,’ Elizabeth advised her daughter briskly before hurrying off to churn her butter.

Would she ever need Imelda? She didn’t think so, apart from needing her right now to make the bed, Brigid mused, dropping thruppence on the floor when she took the sweets out of her bag. She picked it up and put it back in her tartan purse. ‘Come on and make the bed,’ she ordered Imelda, who eyed the shiny silver coin enviously.