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Behind the living room was the kitchen, with a central, scrubbed table, and to her surprise and delight a gas cooker.

There was a dresser crammed with dainty china and some curiosities, like a blue porcelain begging dog and a disgruntled-looking black and white cat.

Flicking the light switch, she was thrilled to find it actually worked.

And the big white sink had running water.

From the kitchen window she could see a garden that sloped up to a bank of evergreen trees and shrubs, and she felt there were rocks like a cliff behind them.

Across the tiny hall another door opened into a parlour.

That ran from front to back, a window at both ends.

This had clearly not been used for years, and seemed like a showroom for Victorian furniture, everything placed just so.

There was a piano and needlepoint cushions which looked as if no one had ever rested on them, photographs in silver frames, and a big glass dome containing stuffed birds resting on branches of a tree.

She opened the envelope from Mr Boyle half-heartedly, only to stare at the contents in disbelief. The cheque was for ￡302 5 s . 10 d .

His invoice showed all his workings, but she would need to look at that properly later. She couldn’t believe there was money on top of getting the cottage, plus the cash that Elizabeth had had in her possession.

Not even in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined having so much money. She would be forced to open a bank account now and that worried her. Did they do checks on people? What would catch her out?

But maybe a local bank would know Mr Boyle, a cheque from a solicitor must carry a lot of weight. And if all went well, she’d need to start to think seriously about what she would do with such a windfall.

She made for upstairs then. To the right at the top of the stairs was a bedroom the same size as the parlour below.

Mr Boyle had put her suitcases in it. It had windows both back and front, and faded pink and white wallpaper.

She prodded the brass bed covered in a patchwork quilt, and it appeared to have a feather mattress.

She slid her hand in under the covers and found it warm from a hot water bottle.

She was growing to appreciate Kathleen more by the minute.

The button-back pink velvet chair by the front window was no doubt the one Miranda died sitting on.

On the other side of the landing was a guest room the same size as the living room downstairs, and behind it, to the back of the house, was a bathroom.

That astounded her. She had been so certain there wouldn’t be one.

Now she had one of her very own, a pretty room with shells and fish on the wallpaper.

Even the tiles around the bath were fancy, with turquoise sea creatures on them.

It was all a bit too much and she began to cry.

She had purposely kept her expectations at a very low level as Margery had told her that Ireland was around fifty years behind England.

It might be quaintly old-fashioned, but it felt like a real home, something she’d never had.

She could never look back on the two squalid rooms in Whitechapel where she’d lived with her mother as a home.

It had been more like a place of torture once Ronnie moved in.

She wiped her tears away angrily, and reminded herself that Ronnie couldn’t hurt her again, and that she shouldn’t even let her mind go back to thinking about what he and her mother had put her through.

A cockerel crowing woke her, and for a moment she didn’t know where she was, as she hadn’t heard that sound since her childhood. It seemed to be dusk, not really dark, and not light either, but the sound of the sea reminded her where she was.

She thought it was evening and she’d slept all day. But then she’d never heard of a cockerel crowing in the evening. Was it possible she’d slept all day and through the night too?

Running a hand down her body she found she was wearing a nightdress, yet she had no memory of undressing. Glancing across the room to the stool by the dressing table, she saw her clothes neatly folded on it. So she obviously did.

But it didn’t matter whether it was night or day, she liked the bed, and stretched out like a cat under the covers, luxuriating in the warmth and comfort of it. Her bed at the Bradleys’ was a thin horsehair mattress, never comfortable, and in winter never warm either.

Bright sunshine hitting the back window woke her later and lit up the entire room.

It was simply furnished, the wardrobe and dressing table painted cream, but someone, perhaps Miranda, had picked out the fancy carving on both pieces in gold.

The pink button-back armchair looked like a family heirloom.

Likewise the big Chinese rug with cream fringes.

The Bradleys had one just like it in their bedroom; Madam was fond of saying that Chinese rugs were very valuable.

Beth had always liked it, so thick and soft.

Theirs had been just pale blue and white; this one was blue, pink and green.

There was a bookcase packed tightly with books close to the pink chair, and she guessed Miranda must have often sat there gazing out to sea before picking up a book. Beth wanted to do that too. She’d seldom had time to read whilst at the Bradleys’.

Someone knocking on the front door made Beth go to the window and look out. She instinctively knew the middle-aged woman was Kathleen, so she called out to say she’d only just woken up but would be down in two minutes. She slipped her dressing gown over her nightdress and went downstairs.

‘Welcome, Miss Manning, to your new home. I’m sorry I called so early,’ the woman said after confirming that she was Kathleen. ‘But I thought you might have questions, or need something I hadn’t left for you.’

‘Please call me Beth, everyone does,’ she replied. ‘I seem to have slept right round the clock. But I’m very pleased to see you. I was so tired I just flopped into bed, and thank you so much for that hot water bottle. I thought it was the evening when I woke.’

‘You must’ve needed it,’ Kathleen said and laughed lightly. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

It made Beth smile to see how Kathleen didn’t wait for approval, but went straight into the kitchen, filled the kettle and lit the gas under it. She had black wavy hair and very pale skin, her eyes were green, and although she was now possibly forty, she was still a beautiful woman.

‘How kind you are,’ Beth said, as Kathleen put two cups and saucers on the table. She then went to the back door and brought in a pint of milk she’d left out there to keep cool, and put some of it in a jug she took from the dresser.

‘Since the Emergency began the sugar is on ration, so I hope you don’t take it?’ Kathleen said.

‘The Emergency?’ Beth questioned.

‘It’s what we call the war.’

‘Oh!’ Beth exclaimed. ‘No, I don’t take sugar. I’ve got my ration book though. Will I need it changed to an Irish one?’

‘I’m sure you will– ask Mr Boyle, he’ll know. We have to be careful not to use much electricity now, and if you have a gas cooker, they come round to check you aren’t using it. In Dublin they call him the Glimmer Man.’

‘Glimmer?’ Beth questioned.

‘Oh, that’s the little flame that fires up the gas.

Some people put the kettle over the flame to keep it warm.

They say they even put a pot of soup or stew on it.

And it’s not allowed. So the Glimmer Man comes round, and woe betide you if he finds it still hot.

They can turn off your gas for weeks. But no one here has had a Glimmer Man call, so maybe it’s just a story.

But I’d advise you to be frugal with both the gas and electric, just in case they do send someone round or look at your bills. ’

To Beth, the Glimmer Man sounded like a scary children’s-book character.

‘You’d be as well to get a few chickens as eggs are on ration too,’ Kathleen said. ‘Butter, cheese and just about everything else. The flour to make our bread is horrible. But at least there’s no rationing on meat.’

Kathleen stayed for about an hour. She showed Beth the coal bunker in the garden, and where to turn on the immersion heater for the hot water.

‘Miss Falcon put it on at night, so she could have a bath in the morning. She said the water in the tank kept very hot because she’d bought a special jacket for it.

Now, do you want me to come and clean for you?

’ she asked. ‘Just a couple of hours a week, or a fortnight?’

‘I’d like that,’ Beth said. ‘But maybe start next week as it’s spotless everywhere now.’

‘I haven’t touched anything in the cupboards and drawers,’ Kathleen said.

‘But you might want to go through them and put Miranda’s letters and other rubbish in the dustbin, or burn them– there’s an old dustbin out the back for that.

But anything else you don’t want, put to one side and I’ll find homes for them.

There are some very poor people near here who will be glad of clothes, shoes, pots and pans and even furniture. ’

‘If I do decide to keep chickens—’ Beth liked the sound of that ‘—can you tell me how to do it?’

‘Of course, my dear,’ Kathleen smiled. ‘And I know a bit about growing vegetables too. There isn’t much in the shops now, but you’ll find Sean the milkman is very helpful about rationing and he brings other things like vegetables and eggs with him.

He said he’d call to see you tomorrow morning.

By the way, Mr Boyle has contacted the electricity company and other such people about you owning the property now. ’

Beth was sure she must have dozens more things to ask, but she couldn’t think of one.

Once Kathleen had gone, Beth rushed upstairs to get washed and dressed, in case anyone else came calling.

People called all day. Most brought something with them, a pot of jam, a bunch of flowers from their garden, a few potatoes and cake. But Beth knew that their real reason for calling was to find out what this god-daughter of Miranda Falcon was like.

It became clear to Beth that some of these new neighbours hadn’t liked Miranda. They used words like ‘educated, eloquent and clever’, which most would see as praise, but as they used the words Beth sensed a hint of sarcasm, and undercurrents of jealousy, fear, and perhaps bewilderment too.

Particularly unpleasant was Bridie Collins, a woman of about fifty and clearly a leader in the community, who swept in with three other women.

She kept picking up items, examining them and putting them down, as if assessing the value of everything, including the new and young stranger to the village.

She had small, sharp eyes and an equally sharp nose.

Small of stature, but with a formidable presence.

‘So, you’ll be staying then? Taking in guests? I heard it said you had a dress shop in England,’ she rapped out.

‘I used to manage a dress shop,’ Beth said, trying hard not to be intimidated. ‘I’ll certainly be staying, it’s a beautiful place and I’d like to see more of Ireland. As for taking in guests, I don’t know yet.’

‘And no husband?’

‘No, and I don’t want one,’ Beth said, more firmly than she felt. She was sure that would be Miranda’s response. ‘But why don’t you tell me about each of you and your families?’

The four women sat down then. Aisling, Caitlin and Nora looked a little uncomfortable with the way Bridie was behaving.

But Beth made yet another pot of tea, and put out a cake one of her earlier visitors had given her.

Aisling said she had five children, but the three eldest ones were at school, and she’d left the two youngest with her mammy.

‘Miss Falcon liked children when they got bigger, but she couldn’t abide babies,’ Aisling said with a little chuckle.

‘I made the mistake of bringing my Orla here when she was just two months, and she screamed the place down. You should’ve seen Miss Falcon’s face!

I didn’t pop in to see her again for over a year, and never brought the wee ones with me again. ’

‘I like babies,’ Beth said. ‘But I’ve no real experience with them. But if you come again don’t be afraid to bring yours.’ All the women exchanged glances at that, almost as if that might be a reason to like her.

‘Miss Falcon never told me she had a god-daughter,’ Bridie said a few moments later. ‘First we heard of it was when she died.’

‘She was my mother’s friend,’ Beth said, ‘since they were young girls, but their lives were so different. I believe Miranda was a governess living abroad most of the time, whereas my mother was just at home with me. It’s hard to stay good friends when you find yourself with little in common, and too far apart to meet up.

I don’t think I met her, apart from at my christening, and I was too young to know her then.

It was quite a shock to be told she’d left me this place. ’

The women wanted to know about the bombs in London, and were shocked when she related being caught up in a raid, and showed them the bald patch on her head.

They complained about the food rationing, and there was a note of bitterness about it.

They couldn’t understand why they had it like England, when Ireland was neutral.

‘I was surprised at that too,’ Beth said.

‘But maybe they had to do that or people from England would be coming over here to buy up food.’ She felt like sniping at Bridie by saying there was a whisper going round in England that Ireland was hand-in-glove with the Germans.

In Beth’s opinion she wouldn’t blame Ireland if the whisper was true.

England had treated them badly for centuries, and even now the Irish were looked down on. But she kept that opinion to herself.

Bridie did not warm up. It was clear she had her own agenda with both Miss Falcon and therefore her god-daughter.

But the other three were very pleasant, offering help if needed and the best places to shop if she went into Waterford or Cork.

Beth really liked Aisling, they were close in age, and she liked her bubbly personality.

She thought they could become good friends.

Aisling was the last to leave, and took Beth’s hand at the door. ‘Don’t mind Bridie,’ she whispered. ‘She’s nasty, bigoted and poisonous, but everyone thinks that. None of us take any notice of her. But I’d like us to be friends, if you can stand someone with so many wee ones.’

‘I’d like that,’ Beth said, squeezing Aisling’s hand. ‘Pop by any time. But not with the witch.’