They had been the closest in age; his lovely red-haired sister had been seventeen when she had gone to her grave. But, although she was older, he was the one who had mothered her.

Thinking of her made him choke up, and so he straightened in the chair and took tight control of his raw emotions. Siobhan and Michael were family, as were Mrs O’Malley and her son Dennis. They all helped to lessen the pain of loss, his sadness – that awful lonesomeness that crept upon him relentlessly.

‘I have to ask ye to leave yer chair, Blackie,’ Mrs O’Malley said, cutting into his thoughts. ‘The suet dough is ready.’

‘Do ye want me to take the pot off the fire?’

‘That’d be a good idea, Blackie, and if ye carry it over, ye can put it in the sink. That’s the best spot for it.’

Blackie got up, pushed aside the chair, and found the two thick pot-holders which would protect his hands. Once he had it firmly in his grip, he walked across the kitchen and did as Mrs O’Malley had instructed. ‘The pot’s in the sink,’ he told her.

Mrs O’Malley, who had gone over to the oven built into the fireplace, exclaimed, ‘The oven is perfect for the pies. They’ll cook fast in this heat.’

Whilst the pies were cooking, Mrs O’Malley cleaned the cooking utensils, and Blackie dried them. At one moment, she exclaimed in her lilting tone, ‘Oh, put the knives and forks out, lad. I know Michael and Siobhan will want to stay for tea. Don’t the pies smell wonderful?’

Blackie agreed and went over to the small table in a corner of the cottage. He took out four knives and forks and two large serving spoons to set four places. The table was small, but they could sit there comfortably, were not too squashed together.

Within a few minutes there was a light knock on the door. It opened immediately and his twin cousins came into the cottage. Both looked cold and had red cheeks from the wind. They were only a few years older than Blackie and just as thin.

‘Hello, Mrs O’Malley,’ Siobhan said with a bright smile. ‘Oh, it’s lovely and warm in here.’

‘’Tis indeed,’ she answered, and looked across at Michael. ‘Hello, lad, ye look frozen.’

‘Good evening, Mrs O’Malley,’ Michael said. ‘And it is bitter out there. And it’s said to be spring.’

‘Ne’er cast a clout ’til May’s out …’ Mrs O’Malley said, and went on, ‘Take your coats off and come and get warm. I hope ye can stay to eat something. Ye both look as if ye need a hot meal.’

‘That would be nice, so kind,’ Siobhan said. ‘If you’ve enough food to spare.’

‘I do indeed.’