She saw Michael first at the cricket match. If you could call it a match; kikuyu pitch on the narrow flat beside the river; homemade stumps, and the bats belonging to Arthur Fittler, who tended them after each match with sandpaper and linseed oil. At least the only ball was new, a Christmas present for one of the Sligo boys. Between the Fittlers, the Sligos and her family the Martins, there were enough kids to field two good teams, with a couple in reserve, and enough left over to cheer. Umpiring fell to Ronnie Daley, who had no family and could be relied upon for fair decisions. At least until lunch, when the hip flask of rum came out of his back pocket and his calls took an uneven turn. An early game was always the best game.
After that, Michael kept turning up at the house, making the ten-mile round trip on horseback between milkings. She couldn’t remember when or why it dawned on her that he was coming to see her and not her brothers. Or when she wanted it to be her. She had no experience of romance and only understood love as an obligation, a duty to protect. Like her father tried to do, or even how she felt about her younger brothers, when she didn’t want to strangle them herself. Marriage was assumed but not necessarily desired, just a different setting for the constant work.
