‘Throw it on yourself. And if you’re not going down to the pumps, you can wash these cups.’ She patted her cloud of red hair. ‘I’ve a hairdresser to see.’

There was chaos on Toomey’s Hill with everybody skittering around at different speeds. One of the O’Grady brothers was shoving fistfuls of snow down the back of the girls’ coats, or at least he was until Liesl Talty (her mam was obsessed with The Sound of Music) gave him a slap across the face. Tom was impressed. He wouldn’t dare hit an O’Grady. Two other brothers whizzed past on election posters belonging to their uncle Paddy, who represented the county in Dublin. Majella Sexton slid by on a wooden pallet. A fourth O’Grady said she’d get splinters in her backside but he’d help her to remove them. Majella told him he’d never get that lucky. Some of the little kids from the new houses near the creamery were building a monster of a snowman. In the middle of it all, a stray dog ran around in circles, barking like he might have rabies.

Toomey’s wasn’t much of a hill, but it was the best Kilmitten had to offer. For miles around, the land was flat. Great farming land, the adults said. They also said there was no money in farming, these days, and that soon enough everybody would be living in Dublin or London. Or New York, like Tom’s sisters.

Tom and Conor’s progress had been slow. Conor had insisted on stopping every few steps and sticking out his tongue until a snowflake settled there. Tom’s best friend was a long skinnymalinks of a fellow with grey eyes and sandy hair. At the front, one bright red tuft stood up, as though it belonged on someone else’s head. Almost everybody liked Conor, but even if they didn’t, they had to be nice because his mother was dead. His father, Flan Varley, was the local sergeant. Tom’s dad maintained that this was the easiest job in Ireland: the last time there’d been a proper crime in the village, Queen Victoria had been in charge.

On Main Street, they’d passed Father Galvin, who was wearing a huge furry hat, like a Russian on the TV news. ‘Morning, boys,’ he’d called. ‘How’s the day off school treating you?’

‘Great, Father,’ said Tom. ‘Did you get a day off Mass as well?’

Conor gave him a look that suggested this was a dumb question, but Father Galvin laughed. ‘That’s a good one,’ he replied. ‘No, I’m afraid the Lord’s work has got to continue. I’ll be seeing you later, though. I hope your mam’s not going to too much trouble.’