Our nanny who used to own the shop says in a house called The Lodge, you know the big place on the corner, three women went mad there; one hung herself and then haunted the others; one found naked behind the woodpile, whimpering. But The Poet’s grand-daughter (yes, The Poet) she was fine, they got on like a house on fire. A rich man from town, well, his wife had an affair with a local farmer so he moved out here to put a stop to it. Shona shrugged, “They kept on.” The husband died and left everything to the Catholics. That’s why we meet nuns, soft-eyed, watching the sunset. They holiday at the husband’s house. Circular. A local man whose wife is the subject of rumour, he’s been working at that house lately. At his own house, when we walk by, a small boy calls out, “Where are you going? Can I come too?”