1922
Jig music skittered out the open windows and doors of Fortune’s farmhouse, the tum-te-tum of Dandy Rowe’s accordion chased by a couple of fiddles. The sounds came jumping down Rathmeelin lane to meet Peg, enticing her forward from the stillness she had stopped to savour. On either side of the lane, two hedges of shrubs and trees were coming into their spring flowering and the evening air was cool on her face and hands. A balm. She could feel something in her rising to meet its sweet solace.
For a moment she was confused by conflicting urges – to stop? To walk on? – then it came to her that she was in the middle of a perfect moment. She had the delights of presence here in the lane, with the ash and the sycamore and the yellow ribbons of primroses all along the hedge, their hearts ya
