Couples suddenly appeared in restless beams of moonlight, then disappeared as suddenly into the shadows. The members of the festival committee went to and fro, watching for the possibility of sparks reaching the tent. They argued about the cost of certain performers over the coming days, made cynical remarks about the chairman, and blamed each other for what might go wrong. Small tents had been pegged into a nearby field by the Fleadh-goers from round the country, and the farmer who owned the field was demanding of the committee that either he be paid a rent or else that they be moved.

“Them lads are all go-boys,” he complained, “they’ll have my field destroyed.”

“We’ll see about payment when the event is over,” said the secretary.

“You have your shite,” replied the farmer.

The local committee humbled by each new onslaught weaved their way smiling through the strange folk people. Each whip of the canvas made their heads turn; nervously they barked orders to the stewards, fidgeted with the cardboard cashbox on a table inside, where the pound notes were clamped down under a tin of nails. The drivers of the cars shouted at the women as they drove by, but Catherine and Sara took no notice. Their Northern solidarity gave them a snobbish and conspiratorial air. Their high heels covered in mud, the women delicately entered the tent. It was like going into a paper bag where you were surprised to find other people gathered and acting natural. The floor was boarded as on an ancient trawler, and gave at the centre to all sides.

Jack Ferris, bright-eyed, passed within a few feet of them. He was smoothing down his tossed hair.

“Hallo,” he said.

“It’s you,” Catherine said.

He commenced some further grooming – patting his pockets, shaking his pants, tying a lace.

“And the girl in the Abbey – is she all right?”

“Fine, Jack, fine,” said Sara.

To Catherine he looked a little strange in his flared trousers. To think of her shameful fantasies that had centred round Jack Ferris those few summers ago made her feel weak. “See you later,” she said. He walked over to where the men, like something out of another century, went up and down as the boards gave beneath their feet when weight elsewhere shifted.

“Do you see him looking at you?” said Lizzie Summers.

“Who?” asked Sara.

“Your man – Ferris.”

“Oh him.”

Asked Lizzie: “Is it you, Catherine, or Sara or what that he’s after?”

“You better ask him,” Catherine said.

“Sure, yon fellow,” surmised Lizzie Summers, as she shook out her coat, “he only has it for to stir his tay.”