But he was kind, and Esther had found kindness hard to come by in recent times. He had bought her tea, and a slice of cake, and told her about his farm where he lived with his father and brother. How his mother had died some time ago and they found it terrible hard to manage the house, they could barely boil an egg between them, the place was an awful state, and they needed a housekeeper, but it was desperate hard to find one. And anyway, it was nice talking to her, and maybe he’d see her again, he was in Belfast on business, and he’d be back the next day.

So was she. And when he came in and found her there, he smiled, showing his yellow teeth. He sat with her again, bought her tea, and a chocolate eclair, and she told him she knew how to sew, and could cook a decent meal, and clean, and could she please be his housekeeper?

Now they drove in Thomas’s car, Esther noting the road signs as they travelled south-west. Lisburn, where her mother’s family had been from, then on to Moira. Esther had read in a newspaper about the building work on a new motorway that would cut the journey time to Belfast by half, but for now the road seemed wide enough. The car rattled and juddered all around them and seemed to travel at a fierce speed. Even in her father’s expensive car, Esther had never gone so fast, and she felt the bright thrill of adventure.

Soon they travelled along small country roads, passing tractors and little else. Cattle grazed the fields, and sheep with newborn lambs. Esther couldn’t remember the last time she’d left the city. The world seemed to throb with green life, from the grass in the fields to the budding leaves on the trees that whipped past.

They didn’t talk much until Thomas turned at a sign for Morganstown, when Esther cleared her throat to signal her intention to speak.

Thomas turned his head towards her for a moment.

“Which church do you go to?” she asked.

“Church of Ireland, in the village. Every Sunday morning.”

“I was raised Methodist,” Esther said, “but it’s all the same, really, isn’t it?”

“Well, some people think that,” Thomas said.

His answer confused her, and she felt her cheeks redden with heat, fearing she had said something wrong. A battle erupted within her: to speak or keep her silence? She chose to be brave.

“It’s good to go to church,” she said, knowing herself to be a hypocrite. She did not believe, would not believe, not any more. “It’s good to hear the word of the Lord. I’m glad that you’re churchgoers.”

“Nearly there,” he said, and she turned her attention to the road ahead.