The farm was poor, low-lying, its driveway pitted with milky puddles, the colour of untrustworthy eyes. And the house, white with a curiously vibrant orange roof, skin and hair tones of certain redheads, had no sense of placement. It seemed, from the way it slumped on low foundations, to have estimated the worth of the land and none of my aunt's parties could relieve its spirits.

Inside were red-haired cousins eating from bowls around a long scrubbed table, and against one wall, ready to be dragged forward if the occasion demanded, was a church pew. There were two kneelers that had come with it: on one an elderly dalmatian was resting her head in an angelic pose; the other was under the table as a footstool.

Red hair, white faces, pale eyes under an orange roof, and white timber and white puddles in the drive, made me think I had come among ghosts or creatures as strange as a family by Goya. The male cousins were to my eight-year-old measure immensely tall, as well as silent. They pushed their chairs back, mumbled and went out, as though the land was in immediate need of their efforts. It probably was but little showed.