The Belfast Girl on Galway Bay. Anne Doughty

more likely to be Armagh or Down myself.’

      I had to laugh. Partly because it’s a game I play myself, placing people by their accent, and partly because he was so accurate. Even after growing up in Belfast, my accent hadn’t lost the markings of my earliest years when we lived with my grandparents down near the Armagh-Monaghan border.

      ‘You’re not far wrong,’ I admitted, smiling at him. ‘Very near in fact, but I live in Belfast now.’

      ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘and you’re staying with Paddy and Mary O’Dara at Lisara.’ He held out his hand and made me a small bow. ‘Miss Elizabeth Stewart, I presume. Patrick Delargy at your mercy.’

      ‘How on earth did you know that?’

      His hand was warm and firm and he was smiling broadly.

      ‘Kathleen, come over here a moment Come and meet the lady herself. Does she answer the description we had of her?’

      Kathleen hurried over.

      ‘Oh, miss, you made us all laugh, you did indeed. Didn’t you put the fear of God into Michael Feely on Sunday. I hear he’s not the better of it yet.’

      Patrick Delargy leaned himself comfortably against the side of the freezer. ‘I missed all the fun,’ he said sadly. ‘Kathleen had better tell you the whole story.’

      ‘Ah miss, poor Feely came in here on Sunday evening and we thought he had seen a ghost,’ she began, her face horror-stricken.

      I was so worried by the look on her face and the thought that I’d upset Michael Feely that I turned to Patrick Delargy to see how he was reacting. He appeared to be enjoying himself thoroughly.

      ‘He came in here,’ she repeated, ‘and the bar full and he swore he had met a witch.’

      Her tragic expression crumpled and she giggled. Patrick Delargy shook his head. ‘Now, come on, Kathleen, this won’t do. Tell Miss Stewart the story the way you told me.’

      With an effort, Kathleen gathered herself.

      ‘Yes, indeed. A witch. That’s what he had met. And it took two large whiskeys before he could go on.’

      I opened my mouth to protest, but Patrick Delargy held up a warning finger. Kathleen was not to be interrupted.

      ‘He said that he had taken a student out to Lisara, a nice enough young lady and very well-spoken. And he says that she told him she had never been in the place before and didn’t know anybody and didn’t even know if the place was still there. And he said he believed her, for she was a very nice young lady and good-looking forby.’

      She nodded towards me as much as to say, ‘Now there’s a compliment for you.’

      ‘And then he says, he takes her out to look for this place she’s never been to and the next thing is that she starts to tell him where every house and tree is and where he can park his taxi. And she knows every stone and bush of the place as if she’d been born and reared there.’

      ‘But I’d only been reading the map . . .’

      ‘Ach, sure, what would Michael Feely know about maps, miss? The man has no wit.’

      Patrick Delargy was watching us both, a broad grin on his face. ‘What about bewitching Paddy O’Dara?’

      ‘I was coming to that, Mr Delargy, I hadn’t forgotten atall,’ she reprimanded him.

      ‘Apparently, miss, you went into O’Dara’s cottage with Paddy, and you’d never set eyes on the man before. No relative, not even a far-out friend, and the next thing, back you come with Paddy as meek as a lamb to carry your case and you to stay for three weeks.’

      Kathleen could certainly get value out of a story. When she imitated the look on Feely’s face, I had to laugh myself.

      ‘I do hope I didn’t really upset him. I did try to explain. But he does jump to confusions, doesn’t he?’

      ‘He does that, miss. Whatever way you would put it plain, he always gets the wrong way of things.’

      ‘But it was a serious case,’ added Patrick Delargy, the light in his eye at odds with the soberness of his expression. ‘I’m not sure how many whiskeys he was bought to help him over the shock and to elicit the full extent of his distress.’

      ‘I think at one stage he thought I was going to write a book about his hotel,’ I offered.

      ‘Oh, he did, he did indeed,’ Kathleen nodded vigorously, as the shop door opened and two girls in blue overalls appeared, followed by a group of visitors and a cluster of children. She left us to go back behind the counter. Patrick Delargy looked at me quizzically.

      ‘And how are you proposing to get back to Lisara, Elizabeth? By broomstick?’

      There were grey hairs on his temples and above his ears. His tie was one of those tweedy, handwoven ones with little irregular blobs of colour where the thread is thick. Like the one I’d nearly bought George for his birthday. Lucky I hadn’t. When I showed him one in a shop window, a lovely yellowy mix, he said it looked just like scrambled egg.

      ‘No, actually,’ I replied, glancing at my watch, ‘I must get a move on. The meat for supper’s here in my bag, and I still have bacon to get from Kathleen.’

      ‘Right. You get the bacon and I’ll bring the car round. It’s going to rain long before you get to Lisara. You do know about witches and water, don’t you?’

      Without another word, he disappeared down the passage and into the stable yard.

      The car was the largest I had ever seen. It was American and very new. The front seat was long and squashy and the shelf above the dashboard wide enough to lay out a whole picnic. When Patrick Delargy settled himself behind the wheel, his solid frame seemed somehow smaller and a remarkably long way away. He drove slowly out of the Square, manoeuvred round a pony and trap abandoned in the middle of the road, paused for a group of visitors who appeared quite unaware they were strolling on a main road and stopped twice for pedestrians who simply crossed the road without looking.

      I remembered an article I’d once read in a women’s magazine about assessing a man’s character by the way he drove. Patrick Delargy certainly scored well on patience. I saw him relax as he turned right at the crossroads beyond the wells.

      ‘This is not exactly the best car for driving through Lisdoonvarna in September, I fear,’ he said with a slight, apologetic smile.

      I was puzzled by the car. The best word to describe it was opulent. And that was right out of key with its owner who was in no way opulent, either in dress or in manner.

      ‘Well, it is rather large,’ I agreed cautiously.

      ‘Large, oversprang, difficult to handle and expensive to run. It was also a gift. What would you do?’

      ‘I see the problem,’ I began sympathetically. ‘I used to have an aunt who gave me the most ghastly blouses for Christmas. I always had to wear them when she came to visit so as not to hurt her feelings. I do wish people would just sometimes ask what you really want and not just assume they know.’

      He looked at me briefly but very directly, something he had done several times already. I was beginning to find it most disconcerting. Until I came to Lisara, I had found few people ever bothered to look at me and even fewer who paid the slightest attention to my reactions. As I met his gaze I knew I’d spoken far more sharply than I intended.

      ‘Don’t people ask you what you want either, Elizabeth?’

      ‘No, not usually. My family all seem to know exactly what I want without any help from me. They then get upset if I point out that it’s not what I want at all.’

      ‘And what happens then?’

      ‘Oh, a row of some sort.’

      I couldn’t for the life of me see how we’d managed to