Elizabeth took a last glance around the parlour. The table was set for the priest’s breakfast. Her best linen tablecloth adorned the table. Two serviettes lay folded neatly on two side plates. The reverend gentlemen would be tucking into half a grapefruit each with a cherry in the centre, and sprinkled with caster sugar, then boiled eggs and toast. John was on call to toast at the fire with the long toasting fork. He was an expert at it, and never burned it. On a small side table beside the fire, covered with an embroidered Irish linen tray cloth, sat a silver salver with two cream candles in brass candlesticks, a crucifix, and holy water. The priest would bring his own Mass set to celebrate the sacrament.

Confessions would be heard in the parlour before Mass, and afterwards, when the sacraments were ended, the priests would be served their meal first, followed by a setting for the men, and finally the women would sit down to eat their food and chat and relax after all the excitement.

Elizabeth’s two nearest neighbours had been helping her out since early morning, making sandwiches of ham and cold roast beef, and egg and onion. They had used shop-bought, sliced bread for the sandwiches, a rare treat, and Elizabeth had rapped Sean on the knuckles when she caught him stealing one. There were loaves of currant bread and brown bread cooling on the kitchen window. She’d borrowed extra teapots for the gallons of tea that would be made. There was a rich fruitcake she’d baked a month ago, and apple tarts and scones brought by neighbours and friends. Herself and Tom and the children had worked hard to have everything right, and Elizabeth permitted herself a small frisson of pride, knowing that when people spoke about the Station held in the Dunnes’ home, they would not be found lacking.

‘Here they are,’ she heard a shout. Hastily removing her apron, and patting her hair in place, Elizabeth went to the front door just in time to see the green car pull up in front of the gate. Nodding to her husband to follow her out, she went to greet the guests of honour.

*

‘Thank God that’s all over,’ Brigid declared, stretching out in the bed, exhausted after spending the day making tea, offering food to their guests, washing up the dozens of dirty cups and plates and the final clearing up when everyone had gone. ‘We won’t have it again for another few years.’

‘I won’t be here for the next one, that’s for sure.’ Imelda yawned and got into bed beside her. She’d rolled her chestnut hair in three curlers that gave her a side wave like Rita Hayworth’s.

‘Why, where will you be?’ Brigid sat up and blew out the candle so that only the pale lemon light of a waning moon illuminated the pitch-dark night.

‘Far from here,’ Imelda retorted tartly.