She straightened up, happy with her haul, and pulled the apron into her to protect the apples. ‘If he has a liking for the older ladies, I may be in with a chance meself – what do you reckon? He’s a mighty fine fella, so he is.’ She laughed and gave him a wink.

Pete sulked, his face peering down, his cap still in place. ‘Have ye no eyes in your head, Nola? Have ye not seen the way Peggy is when he’s around? ’Tis a disgrace – she laughs all over the place like a simpleton. Julia in the fishermen’s cottages can control herself better than Peggy, and she’s afflicted, so she is.’

Nola glanced out of the door. The light was fading, the cattle gathering by the top gate above the house. The vegetation and dense ferns on the hill were winter dead. A single spiral of white smoke rose from the house and disappeared into the grey sky. The horse was restless in his loosebox, excited by Nola’s presence. He’d been fed hot oats after his journey into the village and been rubbed down with a wad of straw, but now he threw his head over the stable door and kicked at it with some force, hoping to catch Nola’s attention. There was the chance she might feed him one of the apples, or if not an extra handful of hay; he would even settle for a cupping of his velvet muzzle with her hand and a kiss on the nose, as had been Nola’s way for the past twenty years.

Nola looked the horse in the eye. ‘Stop that banging – you’ll have the door down. Here, stop.’ She walked over, extracted one of the smaller apples from her apron and held it on the flat of her palm for the cob to take. She turned back to Pete, who was watching her and appeared to be expecting an answer. ‘Aye, well, we all know what it is Peggy is after – a film star. But none will be walking into Tarabeg now, of that I am absolutely sure.’

Pete didn’t speak or move and as Nola looked up, she could see he was unhappy, which was unusual for such a normally self-contained man. They were not often alone, being mostly in the main house together in the company of the men. This was a rare occasion and Pete, a man of few words, appeared to have something on his mind.

‘Joe is as good as any film star,’ he replied. ‘He has the looks and the money. He keeps taking off to America on a jet plane and then coming straight back again. How much more glamorous could he be? And he comes back flashing the dollars around and the presents for the ladies in the post office. What’s there for those of us who stay and don’t go off to America, or anywhere else for that matter? I’ve never even been to Dublin and only to Galway the twice.’