‘He has that,’ said Peggy as, disappointed, Aedan caught up with his less-than-well-behaved brothers.

The sack of flour dropped from Peggy’s hands onto the pile stacked against the window. Wiping her fingers on her apron, she pushed back her hair to watch and enjoy the tableau of domesticity play out before her. ‘Don’t they just brighten up a dull day,’ she shouted across to Keeva, who, crossing her arms to ward off the bitter wind, ran across the road to speak to her.

‘How can I not watch them leave every flamin’ morning,’ she said. ‘The second I turn my back, they will start fighting. All except Aedan. I did something right with him.’

Peggy tucked her hands into her apron pocket and turned to watch the boys walking up the road towards the school. ‘Finn left with Rosie at eight o’clock. He’s on fire-lighting duty in the classrooms, and none too pleased about it either. I swear to God, being the son of the headmistress is a curse for that poor lad.’

She laughed at her own analysis, a laugh that hid her sadness. Thirty, single and childless, it had only recently dawned on her that her fertile years had slipped away while she’d been busy hankering after the truly unobtainable, her all-American dream. Her life to date had been lived vicariously through the film stars whose careers she’d documented in the ever-growing pile of scrapbooks stored under her bed. She had spent years reading every word that was written about every film and film star, devouring with fervour the American magazines that very occasionally arrived in the post office. She’d even persuaded Michael to take her to Dublin on a couple of his buying trips in the past year, so that she could see a film, no matter that it had been released a long time ago. Her obsession had started when she was a girl, with Rita Hayworth, Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, and had finished with Marilyn Monroe and Montgomery Clift. It had come to an abrupt halt only recently, when she’d realised that no matter how many films she watched, her jar of savings was never going to grow as fast as her aspirations.

She was known as ‘poor Peggy’ to everyone in Tarabeg, and on her thirtieth birthday Rosie had taken pity on her, folding a brown ten-shilling note around her gift of a tub of lily-of-the-valley talcum powder. Peggy had almost cried with gratitude. Rosie had helped her count the pennies and silver shillings in her stone jar and had made a quick calculation. ‘Well, Peggy, at this rate you’ll have enough for the fare to America when you’re fifty-two. You’ve a better chance of catching the eye of American Joe up at the farm and persuading him to take you over there as his wife.’

Michael, who’d been sitting by the fire with Finn, reading a book, had laughed. ‘Well, Peggy, ’tis our fortune,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to put up with us, I’m thinking.’