‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mrs Barrett, ‘but Daedio Malone out at Tarabeg used it for years on his knees and he was dancing in the street at ceilidhs when he was well past a hundred. This will definitely do the job.’

Maura slipped the bottle into her basket. ‘Well, I’m clean out of ideas myself and it can’t make his hands any worse, that’s for sure.’

On this particular outing, she had hitched a lift back with Liam Deane in his van. The light was fading as they turned onto the road that led out to the coast, the mountains slipping from green to grey as, laden down with provisions, she squeezed onto the front bench alongside Liam. She would only just make it back before opening time and, no doubt, her least favourite customer would be waiting at the door. But her heart was lighter now than when she’d left. There were letters in her coat pocket waiting to be opened and savoured at the end of the night when she and Tommy sat and enjoyed their nightly whiskey. She would open them, one by one, and read the contents out loud.

She could tell by the envelopes who they were from: Kathleen Deane, Liam’s own mammy; Maggie Trott; one from Malcolm at the Seaman’s Stop, which was somewhat of a surprise, but the thickest was from Sister Evangelista, who would be giving her all the news about the school, the mother’s union and, even all the way across the sea, Maura would be told who was failing in their obligation to attend mass and be given chapter and verse about the carnival arrangements.

There was a letter from Peggy, too, and she had felt a sense of relief when she turned the envelope and read the name and address of the sender on the back. If Peggy was writing, all must be well, and last but not least, because it was bound to be trouble, a letter from the docks board.

‘You have a wicked grin on your face,’ said Liam.

‘Have I? Well, I have letters from home, including one from your own mammy and that’s always a treat. Nothing I can buy on any weekly shop would bring me as much pleasure as hearing all the news from back on the four streets.’

‘We have one too,’ he said. ‘I’m not a man for the reading, though, I’ll leave that to Maeve when I get back to the farm.’