Soon people would be dancing through this cold empty place and I would be at home, confined to my room for months: no Lizzie Magee, no Joe Loughrey, no school books. The party was dissolving as quickly as it had been forced together. Auntie Eileen had already taken Bernie outside, first time either of them had left a party willingly. My sister’s eyes begged me not to say goodbye, as if I would ever have found the strength. My father checked his watch: the cows would be waiting for him at the hill gate.

Poor Bridie was standing alone wringing her hands. She looked ridiculous in a big navy-blue lacy hat that she’d bought or borrowed for the occasion and her broken down-at-heel Sunday shoes. It had made my mother tut loudly. She herself had on a much more fetching green felt hat with a jaunty feather tucked into its darker-green ribbon.

Father O’Brien was walking around with his arms wide as if he was nailed on an imaginary crucifix, but really he was just herding us all out of his parish hall and away back to our lives. His duty was done, Father Martin O’Hara had been successfully painted out of the picture, and he wanted us gone before the fiddle and tin-whistle players showed up to get the craic started.

There was a kerfuffle at the cars. I had turned to get into Daddy’s car only to be intercepted by Mammy who hissed at me to get sense, what was I doing with everyone watching? Trying to make eejits out of us all? She pointed at a blue car that John must have borrowed to make it nicer for his mother.

–  You get in with Bridie, says John Johns.

–  That’s right, darlin’ girl, you pop in here beside me. There now, there now.

She put her hand over mine and we were driven away like we were the happy couple and he was the chauffeur. I looked back to see if I could see Mammy and Daddy or any of the boys following. The house would be locked in case the UDR paid a visit and I didn’t want to be stuck out on the street. The same trees counted me home too fast but John Johns didn’t stop when we got to The Hill. He was driving me down and down into Johns Farm. The potholes juggled us this way and that. I started to panic.

–  Stop! Let me out here. I don’t want to have to walk back. Stop, stop, stop.

I pulled at his shoulder, even though I never wanted to touch him. He didn’t even turn round, just changed down through the gears to keep the car from crashing into the wall by the orchard at Johns Farm, his knuckles white on the wheel.