When she went back to the larder to fetch the carrots, she noticed a bag of fat, ugly apples, and an idea occurred to her. She searched through the other shelves and found caster sugar, flour and butter wrapped in paper. An idea formed, and a memory of the home economics classes she’d taken at Methody. A smile broke on her mouth. What about eggs? They had chickens, so they were bound to have eggs. There, on the middle shelf, in a wicker basket, still speckled with straw and droppings. Cream? No, but there was a pint and a half of milk. That would do, wouldn’t it? The smile turned to a grin and she felt so light inside that her feet might have floated an inch from the stone floor.

She turned to Ivan, breathless with joy, and said, “I can do an apple crumble. All the makings are there. And I can do custard to go with it. There’s no cream, but there’s milk, and that’s almost as good.”

Ivan sat back in his chair with something close to a smile on his lips. “Lovely,” he said. “Aye, that’ll be lovely.”

Esther couldn’t help but clap her hands and giggle like she was a child again in her mother’s kitchen, allowed to lick the whipped cream from the whisk.

While the beef roasted and the potatoes boiled, she cored and sliced the apples and worked the flour, sugar and butter together to make the crumble, all ready for the oven. Two hours after entering the house, she carved the beef and drained the potatoes. As the men took their seats, she laid out cutlery for them. It was then that she noticed there were only three chairs at the table. The fourth had been set against the wall, turned in to face the corner.

“Should I get that chair?” she asked.

None of them answered.

“Or maybe I should just take mine later?”

“Aye,” Ivan said, “just you take yours later.”

The light feeling inside lost its buoyancy, her feet suddenly heavier on the floor. “Oh,” she said. “That’s all right.”

She fetched the dinnerware from the sideboard and plated up the beef, potato and carrots, and placed one in front of each of the men. They leaned in, smelled, examined.

“No gravy?” George asked.

Esther’s stomach dropped. “Oh . . . I . . . I forgot. I’m sorry.”

Tears threatened. She inhaled, drawing them back in.

“Sure, never worry,” Ivan said. He reached out, patted her arm.

“It’ll be awful dry,” George said.

“It’ll be grand,” Ivan said, his voice sharper than before. “Won’t it, boys?”

Thomas and George both said, aye, sure it’ll be grand, lowering their gaze to their plates.

“Come on, now,” Ivan said, “this girl’s worked awful hard to make this meal, so quit your gurning and eat it up.”