Pig Finn, fat and fifty, was happy as whisky. He’d left Ma Murphy’s singing drunk, rumbling and roaring like a bull walrus serenading his salty harem. Unchecked by the icy rain, Pig belted out ‘Sweet Sixteen’ at mighty volume, his voice tumbling and cascading down New Street without a living soul outdoors to hear it.

The very devil was in bachelor Pig because he knew nearby, behind a curtain, down a hall, and in her sacred kitchen, the widow Toole paused to listen, a dawning smile tickling the dimpled corners of her mouth.

By Jesus, he’d run to her and beg her to marry him in church before Lent! And Pig knew as surely as he kenned turkey from tripe, tonight, this very hour, she’d accept him in all his flaws and all his favours. Full-figured Orla Toole, fair and forty, the best cook in Bantry, would soon become his own sweet butcher’s bride.

The mere thought of Easter supper at Orla’s table sent tears of joy tumbling down Pig’s still-boyish cheeks. He’d find heaven in Inchigeelagh with the widow Toole reigning queen in his kitchen.

Pig Finn was in love.