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the subject.
    â€œThat’s a fine lot of hay you have outside in the barn. Should be worth a few bob, I’d say.” Hurrying across the cobblestones from his van to the farmhouse, he had seen the hay barn full of bales. They could be worth a lot if this unseasonable weather continued. Farmers who had expected to leave their cattle out on grass by the end of March were still feeding them dwindling winter fodder indoors. Bales of hay that were selling for less than a pound before Christmas were now fetching nearly four pounds each—if they could be got. The Lynchs might yet sort out their money problems if only they could get rid of what was stacked in the barn before the end of the month.
    Brona shook her dead distractedly. “You’re right, I suppose. But it’s only worth something if we can get rid of it. Someone called a few days ago and offered me two pounds a bale for the lot of it. I refused him. Do you think I was right or wrong?”
    â€œYou were dead right. It’s worth twice that at the very least. Delivered, of course.”
    â€œThat’s the trouble, you see. We’ve no one to deliver it. Larry’s too young yet to take the tractor out on the road, and it would cost a fortune to hire a lorry, never mind the driver and a helper.”
    They both lapsed into silence. By prolonging it, Brona hoped that it might encourage him to leave. Sure enough, after a minute or two Norbert shifted uneasily from one foot to another before announcing that he must be going. His parting words were “Good luck with the hay. If there’s anyone with a lorry and driver going cheap, I’ll let you know. Try to persuade that son of yours to pack in the school, he’s only wasting his time at the books.”
    After he’d accelerated briskly out of the yard and was gone, Brona made herself a fresh pot of tea and took the letter from the bank down off the mantelpiece. It did not improve with a second reading.
    *   *   *
    Class was over for another day and Larry was putting his books back in his schoolbag when O’Hara crooked a finger at him. He walked up to the schoolteacher’s desk as the rest of the class disappeared, pushing and shoving each other, out the door.
    â€œI’m asking you again, do you want to caddy for me or not?”
    Larry wanted to say no. He couldn’t care less about golf and the kind of people who played it. Anytime he passed by the course, it was dotted with small groups dressed up like eejits who dug holes in the short grass as they tried to hit a small white ball. It seemed a pointless game even for those with nothing better to do. However, Pat O’Hara knew that the supermarket closed for a half day on Thursdays, so Larry could not use that as an excuse. The money, however small, he reflected, would be welcome.
    â€œOf course I do, Mr. O’Hara. Whenever you say.”
    The teacher put away the Lucozade bottle and dabbed at his lips with the corner of a spotted handkerchief before answering.
    â€œI have a game arranged in half an hour. I’ll pay you two pounds to carry my bag. On the way round, I’ll tell you what to do, but the main thing is to watch where my ball goes and mark where it lands. The other thing is to shut up. Golfers are easily upset, and talking or standing too near them while they are trying to play a shot is a hanging offense. Now put your schoolbag in the car—I’ll drop you home after we’re finished.”
    They drove past the large sign that read TRABANE GOLF CLUB—VISITORS WELCOME and down the short drive that led to the parking lot at the back of the clubhouse. This was a long, rambling building in need of a fresh coat of paint. Larry had never been inside the clubhouse before. Sometimes he would sneak onto the course to look for golf balls as the sun went down. He was usually chased off by the greenkeeper, who did not welcome competition in selling used balls to