"Helen.. " they heard him cry as he ran down the one street of Lough Glass towards the lake. That was the bit that was all very slow, the bit that Kit heard with the words taking ages to come out of Father's mouth and Mr O'Brien's, even though they looked as if they were shouting. And even when Father ran, his legs seemed to be going up and down the way they showed the slow motion bits in athletics at Pathé News when you saw people doing the high jump or the long jump.
Then things returned to normal speed and Kit saw Emmet's frightened face looking up at her.
"What's happened?" he began, but he couldn't get the word out, his lips kept circling the start of happened and he seemed as if he would choke before he said it. And at the same time, Rita had run to close the hall door, which was banging in and out, while Philip O'Brien stood looking foolish, unable to help.
"Either come in or go out" Rita snapped at the boy. He came in and followed her up the stairs. "There was nobody there" he said to Kit. "I mean you mother wasn't in it or anything. They all thought that it was you kids tricking and trick-acting with the boat."
"Well, it wasn't me." Kit said in a voice that felt as if it was coming from somewhere else.
"Where's Daddy?" Emmet couldn't get that word out either; Emmet who could read every poem in the Primary Cert Primer.
"He's gone to bring Mother home." Kit said. And she listened to the words to see what they meant. They sounded safe. She said them again.
"That's where he's gone. To bring Mother home."
They had flashlights down at the lake. Sergeant O'Connor was there, and Peter Kelly, and the two Sullivan boys from the garage. They were bending over the boat when they heard the sound of running feet and noises in Martin McMahon's throat.
"It's not Helen. Tell me you haven't found Helen in the lake."
His eyes went from one to another, the semicircle of men he had known all his life. Young Stevie Sullivan looked away; the tears pouring down a man's face were too naked to look at it.
"Please, tell me?" Martin said again.
Peter Kelly pulled himself together. With his arm around the shaking man he moved him away from the group.
"Now Martin, will you catch hold of yourself. What brought you running down here anyway?"
"Dan came to the house, he said the boat .. "
"God blast that great interfering Dan O'Brien into the pit of hell. What did he have to go upsetting you for … "
"Is she …?"
"Martin, there's nothing here, man. Nothing except a boat that wasn't tied up. It was blown out into the lake.. That's all there is."
Martin stood trembling beside his old friend.
"She didn't come home, Peter. I sat there saying she's never been as late as this. I wanted to come looking for her. If only I'd come. But she wanted to be left alone; she said she felt like a prisoner unless she could walk on her own."
"I know, I know." Dr Kelly was listening and patting the man's shaking shoulders, but he was looking around him too.
In the trees the oil lamps shone through the windows of the caravans. The travellers might have a fire built in a sheltered spot. He could make out their shapes; they stood, watchful, silent, observing the confusion and drama on the lake's edge.
"I'll bring you up there out of the wind." Peter Kelly said.
"They'll give you somewhere to shelter, till we make sure that everything… " His voice trailed away as if he sensed the uselessness of his words.
Peter Kelly had always been in two minds about the travelling people. He knew for a fact that they took poultry from nearby farms; there weren't enough rabbits in those trees to keep them in food. He knew that some of the boy's could be troublesome if they came into Paddles' bar. But to be fair, they were often provoked into anger by locals.
Peter wished they could see that the travelling life didn't offer much opportunity to the children of their group. The youngsters could barely read and write. They never stayed long enough anywhere for any education to sink in if they were welcomed in the school, which wasn't always the case.
They had little need of his services. They coped with birth, illness and death in their way. And their way often had more fortitude and dignity than the other way. He had never approached them for a favour before.
"Could you give this man something to throw around his shoulders?" he asked a group of unsmiling men.
"I'd be grateful if you could bring more light down to the shore." Peter said simply. And he knew that for the rest of his life he would not be able to remove the image of his friend, sitting on a log wrapped in a rug, while the whole encampment lit up with the blazing torches made from dipping tar-covered sticks into the fire.
And then there was the procession down to the edge of the lake. Martin hugged himself in the rug and moaned. Over and over he said "She's not in the lake, she'd have let me know. Helen never told me a lie. She said she wouldn't do anything without letting me know."
The clock was ticking and there was a little whit between each tick. Kit had never noticed that before. But then she had never sat at the foot of the grandfather block before, leaning against it, holding her brother in her arms, while Philip O'Brien sat on the bit of stairs that went up further still, up to the attic where Rita slept.
Rita sat on a chair in the doorway of the kitchen. Once or twice or maybe more often, she got up and said "I'll throw another log on the fire. They'll need that when they get back."
Someone had sent for Clio. She came through the door and up the stairs. They had left the key in the door. She saw the little tableau. "My mother said I should come down to you straight away." she said. They waited for Kit to reply.
Kit said nothing. "She said this was where I should be."
Something exploded in Kit's mind. How dare Clio talk about herself, it was always I, I, I. It was the place she should be, she came straight down. She knew she must not speak, not until this huge wave of rage passed over. If she opened her mouth now she would hurl abuse at Clio Kelly, order her out of the house.
"Kit, say something." Clio stood awkward on the stairs.
"Thanks, Clio." she gulped. Please may she not say something terrible, something for which she would be apologising for the rest of her life.