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rusted metal hinges. Good girl, Garibaldi, there we go now. Garibaldi was a man, he had been told soon after he had named her, an Italian patriot, but he liked the name, so Garibaldi she remained. And the dead weight of the gates scraped off the mare’s broad flanks as she pulled the trap through. He could hear the slow, careful scraping of the hooves against the gravel, the metal hinged screech and a lightly snoring sound behind him, which he presumed was that school-teacher sleeping, like a cow, half upright. The gate swung back behind to its half-open state as the mare quickened her pace, scattering the gravel. Nina watched from the lawn, the house behind her at first, then shifting to one side as they headed towards the forecourt. Dan raised his arm in a lazy wave, which Nina imitated, a look of scientific curiosity in her upturned face. She walked, then ran, then slowed to a walk again, following the trap around the grey limestone walls.
    The sun to the left of the house, gently shivering fingers spreading over the orchard wall, illuminates Dan Turnbull, the horse and cart and the lady with the pencil-stiff back and the stiffer-brimmed hat, leaving the house dark behind it. The lady is standing in the cart now and the golden glow lends her an alarming theatricality. Dan kicks loose the wooden steps with his foot, holds her gloved hand and plots her delicate course down step after wooden step till her feet reach the gravel.
    “This is Nina,” he says and yells, “Nina. Nina!” His voice, brown and oiled like old tobacco, incapable of anything but warmth. “How are you Nina, how are you.” His hands, like stooks of barley, their own smell, tobacco and engine grease.
    I walked around the house, I remember, towards the dribbling horse and the woman with the dark hat. Dan kept calling even though I was walking towards him, but he was like that, Dan, he would repeat a thing even though you had already answered. He lifted me up with those barley-stook hands and I could smell the tobacco and he said, “Here’s the girl miss, Nina, here’s your teacher,” and I knew even then that she wouldn’t last long. Her dark brim dipped down towards me and she peeled off her glove and reached out her hand. Her breath smelt of malt and her nails were dirty, yet I took it.
    “My tiny one,” she said.
    ~
    An oil-tanker drags its way through the already open gates, trundles up the driveway and parks in the gravelled yard. It sits there, diesel fumes steaming from its rusted exhaust pipes, beeps its horn, waits, beeps its horn again and waits again. A barrel-chested man in blue overalls gets out and lights a cigarette. He calls George’s name, George who ordered oil for delivery on this sixteenth ofJanuary, nineteen fifty. A radio bleeds from his cabin, a politician’s voice talking about the rural electrification scheme and its implications for counties Roscommon, Sligo and Leitrim. He listens to the voice, the silence around it, smokes his cigarette to the butt and walks towards the kitchen door. He pushes it open slowly, calls George’s name again. As his voice dies away, echoing through the empty scullery, he notices the purse on the pine table. He listens and when the silence seems absolute, he lifts up the purse, opens its clasp. He sees the wrapped notes inside but must think twice about it since he closes the clasp again, puts it down, walks back into the yard.
    He walks down the path of packed mud towards the glasshouse, still calling, “Is there anyone there for Jaysus sake?” and only stops when he notices the streaks of red, frozen on the crushed grass, like deft calligraphy against the white hoar-frost. He follows them step by bloody step to the shattered glasshouse door, edges it aside and enters a warmer world, where the pale sun works its magic through the windows and falls directly on the syrupy pool of copper-coloured liquid. He says nothing, stares with a child’s curiosity and only makes a sound when he