‘Franny Moran would love one of these, but she’s too mean to buy one.’ Imelda ran her fingers over the round keys.

‘I heard you’re working there. How are you getting on?’ Larry pressed the key to release the till and counted out some coins.

‘All I’m doing is cleaning and polishing, because she does all the serving. She’s very particular. I even have to empty out the screw and nail containers and clean them once a week. She has me well screwed,’ she added humorously.

Larry laughed. ‘Well, I suppose technically my mam is the boss, but she’s leaving much more of it to me now, and I have plans for this place. I’m going to expand and add a butcher’s counter on because I hear so many complaints about Billy McKenna’s down the road. It’s filthy and he’s spending any profits in the bookies and not putting it back in the business. He’s mad. A good butcher’s shop will always do well in a town or village.’

‘That sounds like a great idea.’ Imelda was impressed with Larry’s business sense. He was only eighteen but he seemed like a man on a mission. She liked forward thinkers. ‘I better be off, the weather’s getting bad and I don’t want to be drenched. It will be bad enough trying to cycle with the wind in my face.’ She put the coins in her purse.

‘Here’s a bar of chocolate for the road, to keep you going,’ Larry offered kindly, and she smiled delightedly.

‘Thanks. I’ll enjoy that,’ she assured him, giving him a wave, and had two squares in her mouth before she hopped up on her bike.

*

When Larry O’Brien asked her to dance the following Saturday evening, in what was grandly called the ‘ballroom’ but which was in fact an old renovated barn with a corrugated tin roof, Imelda agreed. A shopkeeper’s son who was presentable enough was as good, if not better, than a bought farmer any day, she decided, watching surreptitiously as Johnny Larkin whirled his young wife around the dance floor, oblivious to her. And it was that total lack of awareness of her very existence that was the sharpest cut.

‘I was talking to the mother . . .’ Larry’s words intruded on her thoughts as he guided her around the dance floor. He was a good dancer, Imelda noted. ‘And she’d be happy just to come into the shop on Sunday mornings. She’s been working in it all her life and she’d like to retire. I . . . eh . . . I was wondering, Imelda, would you be interested in leaving Franny’s and coming to work in my shop?’

‘And would you let me use the till?’ she teased.

‘I would,’ he laughed.

‘And would you pay me better than what I’m getting in Franny’s?’

‘I would do that too.’