‘He’s dead,’ whispered Peggy.

Rosie wiped the chalk from her hands on the dusty rag on the ledge below the blackboard. ‘Who is?’ she hissed back, taking Peggy by the sleeve and leading her to the back of the class.

Thirty-five heads rose from their books and turned as one.

‘Back to your work, please, girls,’ said Rosie in the authoritative tone she’d acquired over the years, a tone the children dared not disobey.

The classroom smelt of chalk powder, old textbooks, floor wax, burning peat from the fire in the grate, and grubby children. Peggy waited for the shuffling of feet and paper to die away and for the thirty-five sets of curious eyes to turn away before she answered.

‘Captain Carter, ’tis him who’s dead. It was the chest that took him. The doctor could do nothing and they sent for Bridget too late.’

Rosie looked thoughtful. ‘Shall I close the school out of respect, or what?’

Before Peggy could respond, Declan stepped into the room. ‘What is it?’ he asked, looking from one to the other. ‘Why are the bells ringing?’

His question was answered by Teresa Gallagher, who just at that moment hobbled in through the main door, banging her stick on the floor as she walked. ‘Captain Carter is dead. Father Jerry says to send the children home at once.’

There was a sense of air leaving the room as the children all inhaled at once, pencils held mid flight. Had they heard right?

A small voice echoed Rosie’s. ‘Captain Carter from the manor house, he’s dead?’

‘Home it is then,’ said Rosie to Declan, and the words had barely left her mouth before the classroom filled with the sound of chairs scraping and books being closed. ‘No playing in the yard, no noise, straight back up to the farms, and keep your eyes down and your hands at your sides all the way home. Show respect and pray for the soul of Captain Carter on your way,’ she said, blessing herself as she spoke.

Declan returned to the boys’ classroom and issued the same order, then stood by the main door to check there was no joviality in the cinder yard outside.

‘Can we play football?’ asked one brave boy.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Declan replied. ‘Away home now and tell your mammy the news. There will be no football until after the wake.’

Those who dared groaned in dismay as they shuffled down the path, out of the gate, and, more importantly, out of sight of the school.

‘Well, that is it now. God himself knows what’s in store for us all,’ said Peggy.

‘Why, what difference does it make to us?’ asked Declan.

‘It will make a great deal of difference to the Malone shop, I would be saying, Rosie,’ said Teresa. ‘Goodbye now, Declan, and you too, Peggy,’ she added as she limped back to the door, stick in hand. ‘I’m away to the post office and to see Mrs Doyle. She will have all the news, so she will. The poor man, God rest his soul.’ She blessed herself, cast an overly mournful expression their way, one she kept especially for deaths and wakes, outdoing those of any other woman in the village, and was out of the door before Peggy could reply.