My father, Billy Heffron, was enjoying himself, mid-flow in conversation, a cup of tea in his hand and biro-filed paperwork strewn across the kitchen table of his host — a small farmer outside Ballyhaunis. As agricultural consultant, Billy had called to his farming client a few hours earlier to complete forms for some farm scheme or other. However, in the lively talk and laughter afterwards, which is a well-known feature of my father’s visits, the evening had closed in quickly. Too quickly. The farmer jolted forward and yanked up the volume on the radio which had been infusing the room with low-level MWR FM in the background.
