On April 6th, 1931, work began on the construction of a bridge across the strait of water that separated the island from the mainland. That day was a Monday. In the early morning, soon after eight o’clock, the first pickaxes were driven into the ground on the mainland side, a mile to the east of the town. A breeze blew lightly, welcomed by the men as they worked. The morning would be fine, they said to one another, thankful for that also.

On the island the people of Carriglas began their day. Propped up on her pillows, Mrs Rolleston wondered if the post would bring another letter demanding money: such a communication, regularly received from Kathleen Quigley, was overdue. ‘Oh God, ma’am, I’ve a terrible toothache,’ Kathleen Quigley had once piteously complained, and she’d accompanied her to the dentist because she’d felt she should. ‘Oh, ma’am, ma’am, I’ll never forget how you did that for me!’ the girl afterwards exclaimed. ‘Not till my dying day, ma’am!’ Mrs Rolleston smiled and closed her eyes again. Perhaps once, in sending the postal order, she should put a note in, a reminder of that small resolve.

In a bedroom on the same floor Villana reflected on an agreement that had been reached the afternoon before. As usual on Sunday, her fiancé had crossed on the ferry, arriving in the drawing-room at teatime. Afterwards they had walked to the standing stones. ‘You are punishing yourself,’ her grandmother had coolly observed a month ago, when she’d announced that she’d accepted him. But of course, no matter what it seemed like, that was quite untrue. People could conjecture as they wished, it did not signify in the least. He was nineteen years her senior; he was awkwardly stiff in his presentation and conveying of himself, like starched string, she once had thought. And for the curious she could add that she remembered from her childhood the boniness of his knees because often she had clambered on to them, attracted by his watch-chain. ‘Oh, do say you’ll come to Carriglas when we are married,’ she had implored again on their walk the previous afternoon. ‘That would mean so much to me.’ And he, though remaining taken aback, had in the end agreed. That was what mattered.

In the bedroom next door John James opened an eye and at once remembered the day was a Monday, which meant he would visit the Rose of Tralee boarding-house. The thought both excited and displeased him. ‘Bloody woman,’ he muttered to himself, and went to sleep again.

Half a mile away Lionel began the ploughing of a field.