‘Holy doozers!’ The murmured and wondrous, quiet expulsion of air rose like a fog as his breath hit the frosty morn and condensed.

Thursday, 9th July 1874

‘Holy doozers, Mickie! Let’s go!’ In excitement, Dinny Cahaley raked his hand through his unruly thick sun-streaked mop, the action doing nothing to discourage his hairstyle’s impression that he had just got out of bed.

Wednesday, July 15th 1874

Locked into a corner, with four others of his kind, his eyes darted frantically from side to side, looking for a means of escape. There was space on the right, or maybe the left, to dodge the slight figure on horseback, but he would have to be quick on his feet. He snorted, a grunt of defiance and challenge, baiting his chaser to close in, in order to give him the angles needed to get around and away. He knew that it was him alone that they wanted and that the others would be left in peace.

James Cahaley perched upon the top of the high balcony wall, one floor up, with one leg straddled either side to maintain his balance. Despite a heaving chest from the exertion of his climb, he was careful to stay silent and grateful for the new moon, which had plunged the late evening into darkness.

‘What could tie a family together more than weeding?’ Dinny’s rhetorical question was aimed at his three brothers, all lined up next to him on hands and knees digging in the dirt, sweat staining their armpits. He seemed to be the only one who was smiling, probably because he was fantasising about how they could make Ma a rose garden five times bigger than this one, with rose heads double the size, if they moved to Australia. His enthusiasm of the days before had not yet been dampened by time.

‘Are you thinking about our daughter?’ Patrick asked Josie as he lifted the sheets and slid in next to her under their bedcovers. She had not spoken much since he had entered the room and had gone about her preparations for bed in a starey-eyed trance. The scene at dinner had been unfortunate but necessary, and its echo hung in the air like the shadow of the mountain. But Patrick could see, with the perception of long-term connection, that it was the ghost conjured in the conversation, with its threat of loss and anguish, that had wounded Josie most keenly and was demanding of her attention now.