‘Lucky her,’ retorted Imelda. ‘My da won’t ever be buying me a car because he gave all our money to those feckin’ Missionary nuns so they’d take Brigid.’

‘She thinks she’s the bee’s knees, that Larkin one. Why don’t we let the air out of her tyres some night – that would bring her down to earth, literally!’ Teresa guffawed.

‘I have to go,’ Imelda said, stubbing out her fag. ‘I’ve to cycle over to O’Brien’s with the eggs and there’s a bloody howling gale. I’ll be OK going but I may as well walk coming home, and I want to be home before dark.’ One of her chores was to bring the freshly laid eggs over to O’Brien’s grocery shop in Glencarraig, twice a week.

‘Larry O’Brien fancies you,’ Teresa teased.

‘Well I don’t fancy him,’ Imelda said irritably. ‘I’ll see you at the dance on Saturday night.’ She cycled off down the rocky lane to the farmhouse where her mother had the fresh eggs waiting in the pantry, ready to go.

As she set off for O’Brien’s, her cycling punctuated by deep gusty sighs, Imelda was in a foul mood, thanks to Teresa bringing Johnny Larkin’s wife into the conversation. Though she’d never admit it, she still harboured a deep and unrequited love for the handsome young farmer who had flirted with every girl in Ardcloch and broken more than a few hearts. Her face darkened, assailed by painful memories of her encounters with him the previous year.

Johnny Larkin had been her first kiss, even though she’d been only fourteen and he twenty. He’d been a bit pissed one day when he’d sauntered out of Nolan’s pub and found her trying to mend a puncture on her bike.

‘I’ll do that for ya,’ he’d said good-naturedly, hunkering down to find where the air was escaping and stick the patch on the hole. She’d looked down at his curly black hair and strong, tanned neck and felt an unaccustomed surge of quivery feelings that made her want to touch his hair and . . . kiss him. He was an older man, of course, but then the heroes in her romantic novels were always older than the heroines, older and more experienced. She’d watched as he’d pumped up the tyre, admiring the dark hair on his tanned, muscular arms, and his long, strong fingers that made her want him to touch her in her secret hidden places, places that gave her such pleasure.

‘There ya go! All ready to take you to Timbuktu and back.’

‘Thanks so much, Johnny,’ she’d managed breathlessly. ‘I’m very grateful.’