Leaning on a shovel, defeated by a section of scrubby grass, Meg spun around at the man’s greeting. Smiling, she said, “Frank MacDermott! I’m told we’re neighbors, but where’ve you been since we arrived? It’s been two weeks!” She pulled off a work glove and they shook hands.
Dressed in baggie trousers cinched tight by a thick belt, a soft, collarless shirt under a patched jacket, the wiry man had grown thin in his sixties. His blue eyes bright in a sunburned face under a flat cap, the maternal uncle of Mary O’Neill—lover and betrayer of the young Meg—said, “Just home from fishing the Lower Bann. Bagged duck and hare while there, too. Are you here for good?” His sonorous voice belied his weedy appearance.
“We don’t know. Lillian and I decided to leave before the bombs got us—bringing our
