Finnamore smiled an acknowledgement, his lips drawn back in bony contentment. He saw in his mind’s eye the four fields joined again to the fields that had for so many centuries been their companions, a way made through the brambles, and precedent begetting precedent. He saw himself walking with his wife through gardens in which there were gardeners again, by ripening corn and healthy meadows. The prospect displeased in no particular; only the outrage of the bridge’s dedication cast a shadow. He had made representations to the authorities in the sternest language at his command. Although there was no legal issue to argue, he had succinctly exposed the error of the decision that had been taken, making his case on grounds of simple humanity. The man was the family’s last enemy, he had written in a letter that in the end covered two sheets of Harbinson and Balt writing-paper. Any day now there should be a reply.

Carriglas, August 10th, 1931. This afternoon I carried the can of tea to the field where Lionel and Haverty were clearing stubble. It is the first time since my return that I have done so, the task usually being Patty’s, but Patty is inclined to dawdle. I went the back way, by the little copse and the hillfields, and saw the two men in the distance long before I was near enough to be noticed. I can neither describe nor properly indicate the happiness I experienced in the warm sunshine, spreading out when I arrived a tea-cloth in which I’d wrapped two slices of sponge cake. His hand brushed mine, I don’t know how it was, some accidental thing, ‘Oh, sorry,’ he at once apologised, relegating to clumsiness on his part this precious moment.

Yet afterwards, as I walked back to the house, I felt touched, not by contentment but by misfortune, drawn into a mood of hopelessness that often seems to pervade the very landscape of Carriglas now. I understand nothing of it.

That same evening John James walked up and down under the monkey puzzle, smoking. He liked to do that in summer when it was fine, as his father had. Taking his ease in the garden after dinner, his father used to call it.

His leg ached because he was upset. ‘Look on the wash-stand, pet,’ she’d said, and when he’d done so he saw that she’d actually written out a cheque. She required no interest on the money, she had assured him, raising herself on an elbow and causing the bedclothes to fall back from the upper half of her body.