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‘Help me!’ he called out as she got within hearing distance. His Irish accent was very strong. ‘My father has had a fall, and I can’t get him up on my own. I can’t leave him either to call a doctor. He has no phone.’

She could understand why he couldn’t summon help elsewhere, this was the first house she’d passed for at least two miles. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Should I ride on and get help?’ she asked. ‘I mean, if you can’t lift him I doubt I’ll be much help.’

‘Maybe that’s so. But he’s outside, half in a puddle, he’ll catch a death of cold if I leave him there. Will you just try?’

Despite the man’s rough appearance he had a nice face, with speedwell-blue eyes and very white teeth.

‘OK, I’ll give it a go,’ she said, getting off her bicycle. ‘Lead on.’

It appeared to be a small farm, set back from the road, with a courtyard in front where chickens were pecking. She saw a couple of black and white cows beyond a hedge, and in the courtyard a donkey was looking out from a stable door.

The old man was lying on his back by an outhouse, in a deep puddle.

‘How did you get here?’ she asked the younger man, seeing no vehicle.

‘I walked. It was grand with the rain stopped, an’ all. I live about five miles that way.’ He pointed towards Cork.

She thought it rude to ask more questions when the elderly man was possibly badly hurt.

‘I’ll take his shoulders, if you could get his feet,’ he said. ‘Sorry, it means you’ll get yours wet.’

‘That’s OK. Wet feet are nothing to worry about,’ she said, and let him grab his father under his arms, while she waited to be told when to grab the feet. ‘Which way are we going, back or to the side?’

‘To the side. Make sure you are steady on your feet before we try to lift him. I don’t want you falling in too.’

The old man appeared to be unconscious, but as his son lifted him, he shrieked in pain. ‘It’s all right, Pop, I’ll soon have you out,’ he said comfortingly and signalled for Beth to take his ankles.

The old man was wearing boots and it was hard for her to get her hands around his ankles, but she grabbed him a bit further up his legs and lifted.

He was a dead weight, and it was clear the water in the puddle or mud at the bottom was sucking him down.

But on the count of three they lifted and took sideways steps.

‘Nearly there, Pop,’ the man called out over his father’s desperate cries.

They laid him down on a dry part of the courtyard. His face was chalky white, and it made her remember the night the doctor had rescued her from the ditch.

‘Shall I ride to call an ambulance, while you get some blankets to cover him? He’s very cold, he must’ve been lying there for ages,’ Beth said.

‘I’ll go, if I can borrow your bike,’ he said. ‘I know people across the field with a phone. You won’t be able to find their place.’

He was on her bike and away before she’d even had time to agree, or to ask if it was OK to go into the cottage.

She looked at him speeding up the road and in that second she felt he might not be the son, but a thief, and now he had the only means of transport to get away, leaving her with an injured old man.

That might well be the case, but for now she had to get the old chap warm.

‘Can you hear me?’ she asked, kneeling beside him. His eyes were open but staring vacantly. ‘Your son has gone to call an ambulance, but can I go in your home and find some blankets?’

‘Who are you?’ he asked, his tone sharp and eyes wary.

‘Beth Manning. I live in Dunmore. Your son flagged me down to help him. What’s your name and where does it hurt?’

‘I hit my head.’

She lifted his head a little, enough to see a great deal of blood on his woolly hat.

She wasn’t going to take his hat off, she’d leave that for a professional.

As she got up to go and get some blankets she looked over by the puddle he’d fallen into.

There was some blood on the concrete but nothing like a sharp stone that might have caused such a bad wound if he tripped and fell on it.

She scooted into his cottage, and immediately felt further panic to see the state of it.

It was hard to tell if the living room was always an untidy mess, or if someone had ransacked it.

On the couch was a blanket which looked like a dog’s bed.

She picked it up and then went up the stairs to look for more.

There were two bedrooms, the main one also looking as if someone had searched it.

She took a blanket from the bed, and then it struck her that there was no dog.

Had there been one it would’ve barked. That was odd.

Farmers always had dogs, and the first blanket she’d picked up smelled of one.

Her stomach churned, wondering where he was.

Once downstairs again she wrapped the old man up with the blankets. ‘Sorry, this one is a dog blanket and a bit smelly,’ she said as she tucked it round him. ‘What breed is he?’

‘Prince!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s probably asleep somewhere,’ she said soothingly. ‘Once the ambulance gets here I’ll go and find him.’

‘He wouldn’t leave me here,’ he said, and his voice cracked with emotion.

She felt she knew then what had happened. Someone, either the man she saw or another, had come to rob the old man and hit him when interrupted. Maybe the dog tried to defend him and the thief killed the dog.

If this was the work of the man she spoke to, she could identify him, but setting that aside, she needed to get help for the old man now. She knew she hadn’t passed any houses or telephone boxes, so that only left going further up the road to see what was there.

She knelt down beside the old man. ‘I need to get help for you,’ she said. ‘I can’t leave you out here, it will be dark soon. So who is your nearest neighbour?’

He looked fearful now. She didn’t know if this was because he was picking up on her anxiety, thinking about his dog, or asking himself who the young man was.

‘Was that young man who helped me get you out of the puddle your son?’ she asked.

‘Both my sons went away,’ he said, his faded blue eyes filling with tears. ‘They don’t write anymore.’

‘I’ve got to get help for you,’ she said. ‘Can you hold on? I’ll be as quick as possible.’

Beth sped off, running as fast as she could up the lane in the direction of Cork.

She willed someone to drive this way to flag down, but people just weren’t driving now due to petrol rationing.

She hadn’t run for a very long time, and she was soon out of breath and had a stitch.

But she kept on; she had to find help for the old man.

Finally she saw a cottage, smoke coming out of the chimney, and she prayed silently that they had a phone. Or at least that they knew where the nearest phone box was.

She charged up to the front door and hammered on it.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming,’ a woman called out, and the bolts were drawn back.

‘The old man,’ Beth managed to get out, holding her side and pointing back down the track. ‘He’s hurt.’

‘Get your breath,’ the woman said, ‘then tell me calmly.’

Her Irish accent was barely noticeable. She was possibly in her forties, with a plump pink face and well dressed in a twin set and tweed skirt. Just a glance at the polished wood floor in the hallway gave Beth hope for a telephone.

‘Do you have a telephone? The old man has a bad wound on his head and he’s lying on the ground. He needs medical help.’

The woman nodded. ‘Are you talking about Able Connor? His farm is the next place down.’

‘I don’t know his name,’ Beth blurted out, then told her about being flagged down, helping to get the old man out of the water, and the young man riding off on her bike.

‘Oh my goodness,’ the older woman gasped. ‘I will telephone the police and ambulance now. Go into my kitchen and get a drink of water. You look like you need it.’ She pointed down the hall.

Two gardai arrived within five minutes, and took Beth back to old Mr Connor’s farm.

On the way she told them about the young man.

The ambulance turned up soon after and the men lifted Able on a stretcher into it, after first taking his pulse and listening to his heart. They drove away with him immediately.

‘His dog,’ Beth said to the two policemen. ‘Do you think he killed it?’

‘We’ll look, Miss,’ one said. ‘And check his home. You sit in the car for now, we’ll take you home then and you can make your statement there.’

It was when the younger of the two policemen came back into the farmyard after going round the back, and she saw his shocked expression, that Beth began to cry. She knew he’d found the dog dead, and that brought all the recent events to a head and shock set in.

‘He’s beaten old Prince over the head with a shovel,’ the man reported to his companion. ‘I think if this young lady hadn’t turned up he might have killed old Able too.’

Beth wasn’t so sure of that, or why did he stop her?

Was it just to get her bicycle or did he really want her help to get Able out of the puddle?

And how did he know she was coming down the road?

He surely couldn’t have heard her. Or was that just chance and he was looking to see if it was all clear?

‘Don’t cry,’ the older garda said, reaching into the car to pat her shoulder. ‘You’ve had a nasty shock. Stay in the car to keep warm, and we’ll take you home when we’ve finished here.’

Two hours later, the gardai gone and the light gradually fading, Beth sank back on her sofa feeling completely drained.

They would establish if Able had any relatives and contact them.

Meanwhile a friend of his was going into the house tomorrow to check if anything had been taken.

Beth knew the young man left empty-handed, but of course he could’ve filled a bag with stuff before she got there and hid it in a hedge to retrieve later.

The Garda claimed he was probably a tinker. He may even have had a horse tethered further up the road, so they would be keeping an eye on that lane, and looking for her bicycle in case he dumped it.

It was very unsettling, and unless she got the bicycle back she’d be trapped in Dunmore.

Perhaps it would be good to go somewhere else for a short break. Maybe on the train to Dublin?