‘Ah, you’re a grand hoult of a girl. Give me a kiss now in return,’ he said, grabbing her and planting his mouth firmly on hers, then sliding his tongue in between her parted lips. Imelda was so shocked she opened her mouth even wider, much to his approval. ‘And a good kisser too,’ he said, eventually drawing away from her when he heard the growling roar of a tractor heading in their direction. ‘G’wan, before ya get me into trouble,’ he laughed, and swung off in the direction of his farm, raising his hand in greeting to Milo Owens when the tractor crested the hill and the cab came into view.

Imelda’s life had changed from that very moment. She was a woman in love – deep, passionate and all-encompassing love. Her thoughts were full of him. She went to sleep thinking about him, with her hands down between her legs, bringing herself to warm, wet pleasure-filled quivering throbs, though she knew it was a mortal sin and would need confessing. Imelda didn’t care if she went to hell; the pleasure was worth it, although she’d blushed to her roots in the pitch-darkness of the confessional when Father Foster had asked her if ‘actions’ had accompanied her ‘impure thoughts’.

There had been other interludes, whenever she encountered Johnny on her way between Ardcloch and Glencarraig with the twice-weekly delivery of eggs. Each time her beau, as Imelda thought of him, tried to go further with her. But when he touched her privates, she’d pulled away and said ‘no’. Johnny’s response was to call her a tease and tell her that he was finished with her.

Her romantic notions, fed by love stories and Hollywood fantasies, were dashed when real-life rejection showed her that dreams were not real and reality sometimes stung, hard.

Imelda had never forgiven him. Watching him parade around Ardcloch with that show-off wife of his was a constant reminder of the intolerable heartache unrequited first love brings in its wake.

‘Don’t think about him, the lousy skunk,’ Imelda muttered, her words floating off in the air as she cycled.

Larry O’Brien was on his knees stacking shelves behind the counter when she walked into the shop with her basket of brown and white speckled eggs. ‘Howya, Imelda,’ he said politely, standing up. He was tall and broad-shouldered too, she noted idly, remembering her friend’s teasing.

‘Hi, Larry, here’s the eggs.’ She laid the basket on the counter.

‘They’re a grand size, thanks. Let me get you the money for them.’

‘You’ve got a cash register!’ Imelda exclaimed, admiring the new gleaming chrome machine on the counter.

‘I did,’ he said proudly. ‘We have to move with the times. Besides, the mother was getting a bit confused with her tots on Sunday mornings when there was a crowd in after Mass, and I’d have to do hers as well as my own.’