Excerpt from The Butchers' Blessing by Ruth Gilligan, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Ronan slides the metal chain and undoes the latch. This could be a mistake, he thinks; could mean giving up a secret buried safe for twenty-two years.

"Jesus Christ."

He turns the handle and the light comes blinding in.

CHAPTER ONE
Úna

County Cavan, January 1996

Úna had no idea it would be their last farewell dinner. And anyway, she was far too distracted that night by the prospect of a mouse.

Outside, the barren fields lay flattened by the January cold, the kind of chill that got into your bones and under your gums. Frosty vapours rolled in to lend the borderlands a haunted disposition, as if they needed any help in that regard. Beneath the beech trees, a flock of sheep huddled close for warmth, their wool crystallising degree by falling degree, until eventually their fleeces had frozen together to form a single, shivering mass—a terrified creature that might not last the night.

Inside the house it wasn't much better, the cold working its way in quickly through chinks and gaps, and more slowly through the seep of plasterwork damp. But down in the kitchen, the air had been roused to such a glorious swelter it would stave off the worst of the freeze for another hour or two yet.

The feast was almost ready, the pots thuddering on the boil, the oven fan sucking up delicious vapours of its own. In the middle, Úna was setting the table—not just the usual cutlery and plates, but all the fancy accoutrements given the occasion. There were coasters and placemats, napkins dug up from where they lay buried deep for the rest of the year, their pretty scalloped edges creased and slightly frayed. In the corner of one she spotted a bloom of mould so she tried a rub of spit. It wouldn't budge. She folded the napkin and put it in her place.

On the sideboard, the radio was wavering somewhere between static and the final bars of a Simply Red croon— apparently Mick Hucknall was pure delighted by the very idea of coming home to you.

Hearing the words, Úna almost laughed at the irony. Then she thought of the bleating frozen mass outside and this time she laughed outright.

Coming home to ewe.

She was about to share the joke with her mam, who was over by the sink looking dolled up, gorgeous in her earrings and heels. Even though the whole point of the dinner was to celebrate the fact that, for one last night, none of them would be going anywhere.

Her mam, though, seemed too frazzled for jokes, so Úna tucked her mousy hair behind her ears and concentrated on double-checking her arrangement. Or maybe triple-checking was more appropriate since the three place settings were lined up precisely where they belonged. After tomorrow, dinnertimes would only be set for two, the pair of them chattering and chewing away, swapping jokes and silly stories from the day, while secretly both were half thinking of him; half wondering what he had managed to get for his own tea; half hoping he and the other Butchers had found a wayhouse where they could spend the night.

Right now her father was upstairs finishing his packing. He would set out tomorrow at the snap of dawn. If the freeze kept up its belligerence it was bound to be a slippery sort of farewell. He always told her that, apart from the knives, of course, the most important thing was a decent pair of boots. Their feet got annihilated on the road, blisters and bunions and pus weeping in between toes. So this afternoon, Úna had offered to take his pair and buff them up to a conker sheen; had said she could even re-wind his laces. But after he thanked her very much, he explained such tasks were a Butcher's prerogative. Úna had felt a swell of pride and jealousy all at once.

"Right, you can call him—I think we're ready."

Úna looked at her mam. "Don't you mean Simply Reddy?" She thought she caught a glimpse of a smile. She sprinted out to the hall—"Dad! Dinner!"—and her voice carried up through the bones of the house. On the way back to the kitchen, she glanced around her before opening the boiler cupboard quickly, just to check. The knuckle of cheese on the mousetrap had frozen a solid white.

Excerpted from The Butchers' Blessing by Ruth Gilligan. Copyright © 2020 by Ruth Gilligan. Excerpted by permission of Tin House Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.