The bird dived below the cliff as Joe trained the binoculars on the house. The car came into view, bumped across the pitted farmyard and stopped outside the front door. From where he stood on the slope, he couldn’t be seen. Handy, he could check the visitor before he need show himself.

It was a while before the door opened and a woman stepped out. Her back was towards him but he could see that she was dressed in a plaid coat and a purple beret. Not from round these parts. She went into the porch, knocked at the door. You’re wasting your time. He used to hope little Bridey would come knocking, but now, after all these years, if she did, he’d say the same to her. You’re wasting your time. The woman was bending low, peering through the letter box. Much good may it do her. The plywood he’d nailed over the opening stopped the busybodies as well as the draughts. She wouldn’t see a thing. Besides, local people knew that they never used the front door, hadn’t since the war. Knew also that the old man inside was as deaf as a post.

The woman turned back to the car. It had to be that Hummel woman. If it was him she was after, she’d have to come back another day. Now was not convenient.

She walked away from the car, through the farmyard. There was a path at the end that led down the cliffs onto the beach below. Strange to be dressed up with a hat and all, to go walking on the beach. He hoped she wouldn’t be long. Pierre would be here soon. They’d wake up the old man and get the business started.

Betsy was grazing, pulling at the grass so it screamed, flicking her tail over her dun, worn hide. She jumped as he came close, kicked up her hooves and skittered away.

‘Betsy girl,’ he said. ‘Don’t make it hard.’ He fished in his pocket for the lump of salt and held out his hand. She walked towards him, one slow hoof at a time, smelled him with wet nostrils, curled her tongue and rasped it over his hand. She bucked as he pulled the halter over her, tried to run away, but he held firm.

‘I may be small,’ he said. ‘But I’m still strong.’ For wasn’t he the bantamweight champion of Ireland, even if it was before the war? But what would Betsy know of that?