I blame the whole caravan-living thing. It was playing havoc with my nerves. We had all had to get closer. Without rooms to run to, we sat around together at night. I cooked outside in the log store on the two-ring gas stove, churning out great piles of stew or chicken soup with spuds which we ate with spoons from tin bowls. We felt we could nearly touch the stars, they were so close in the low dark sky. We drank hot chocolate on the steps of the caravan after John cut a steel drum in half and used it to light a fire. The smoke kept the midges from eating us alive.

Serena loved it: having Bridie, me and her dada all on call at once was her greatest delight. Matthew started coming over more regularly and the other lads who were knocking down and putting up walls stayed for a few beers in the evening. The days were stretching into summer and there were more hours to get through all the work of the farm. Along with the light, there was no doubting it: the place had become jolly. I wanted to laugh too, wanted to throw myself into the joy of watching the amber sparks of the wood burning in the silvery-blue of the flames. But my laughs were stuck in my feet and by the time they climbed to my mouth it was too late.

Seeing John among his friends joshing and joking was unsettling. A lot of them had been in England with him and the tales they’d spun and heard in pubs were often repeated. Bridie had a few favourites she asked for every night and she laughed like she’d never heard the punchline before. They tried to include me but I would blush and stammer and clam up if a question came my way. The looks on their faces assured me they thought John had married an idiot out of the goodness of his heart when he could have had his pick, and they were right. The man himself answered for me so I could blend back into the whitewashed walls.