They waited as the voice ran through all the meteorological stations round Ireland, then at last it came: And now Belmullet. For the two weeks they were there, the wind averaged 12.3 knots with gusts of over 90 mph. The Atlantic gales from the west never ceased. Maisie watched, with a sense of sadness, the few plants that still remained being driven parallel with the ground. The wind whipped the breath out of the bodies of the girls when they ran outside for turf. Sheets of black plastic flew by.

Now they understood for the first time the sheer strength of the house they’d bought. They grew grateful to the Irish Lights Commission who had built these two-storey dwellings for families on leave from the lighthouses of north-west Mayo. The slate roofs remained intact. Rain burst from the gutters and spilled in a wind-frenzy across the yard, but stone drains took it away.

During their first storm there the Adamses sat in the draughty kitchen reading, or else remained in bed while the demonic elements raged. Jonathan Adams, wrapped in a blanket, could be found every day somewhere to the back of the left window on the first floor seated by the desk in his study. Draughts blew from every aperture. The windows shook. The third night, the lights gave. A pole was down somewhere. The neighbours offered Maisie candles. In the kitchen at night the girls read extracts from the classics, and acted out little maidenly parts.

“I used to act too,” suddenly Maisie declared.

Under pressure, she agreed to perform. She disappeared for a while. The candles were blown out. Then she entered, bowed low, a candle flaring in one hand, a key shaped from the Irish Times in the other. Her head was crowned by the Sergeant’s panama hat draped with a black veil.

She turned to the audience, and genuflected demurely.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the task of time goes on and on without our knowing. With my key I keep the hands turning. With my oil can I keep the parts oiled. Oh, the clock says, when she hears me coming, he is coming at last.”

Slowly, burdened down with age, she took a chair across the room, stood on it, and began to wind the air in front of her, while she sang a demure rendition of what had once put her name on the Scripture Cup in Rathkeale – Maisie Ruttle 1st Prize: The German Clock Winder.

The old clock winder

He did it by night

He did it by night

And he did it by day

With my turaluma luma luma

Turaluma luma luma

Tura liay,

Tura liura liura liay,

Turaluma luma luma

Turaluma luma luma

Tura liay

Then they all joined in

Tura li-ura li-ura liay

And she blew the candle out. The girls began to stamp the floor for more.