As the evening drew in, John didn’t appear so we ate without him. The boys were calling him but got no answer. I made them pasta with a tomato sauce from my own tomatoes which were sweeter than life itself. My developing set of green fingers cheered me, the beauty of my garden was just beginning to knit the break of Bridie.

We opened some wine and saved a glass for John; when he didn’t come we opened some more wine and saved him a glass from that. He was never late and it wasn’t long ’til we took ourselves out on the street to listen for his car. We were all beginning to fret so I occupied them with jobs: I had them check the gates, walk the fences and give the beasts an extra feed.

John Johns hadn’t come back by dusk; it was way past his time. I didn’t worry now that the days of the RUC on the prowl were long over; they were the PSNI now, the Police Service of Northern Ireland who were going to look after us without bias or bile. Daniel hung close to me as I moved around the kitchen. Shane was gassing with Serena on the phone; the twins were kicking a ball outside as it grew dark, their voices carrying high and happy, carefree. But something was niggling me, John Johns would have set out for home early, knowing the boys would be waiting.

After an age I heard a vehicle coming. The sound carried easily on the river, it was so still; and I knew it wasn’t him, his engine was different. I was standing at the end of the house waiting for whoever it was when a red tractor turned the bend. The boys were all around me before it came to a stop on the street. Wordy Clarke was behind the wheel so it wouldn’t be a long story. He got out and tipped his cap before he threw his fag over the hedge.

–  Missus.

–  Wordy.

–  Himself’s had an accident.

–  What kind of accident?

–  Fall. Been took to Omagh.

–  Wordy, HOW DID HE FALL?

–  Off a baler, cab jolted.

–  AND?

–  He’s in Omagh.

–  Jesus wept! Thanks, Wordy, you’re a star turn as always!