Two Lives

22

Letty’s wedding party was very different from Mary Louise’s. It was held in the public house referred to by Rose when the news of Letty’s romance was first mentioned in the dining-room above the shop. As Rose had stated, the public house in question was at a crossroads, a long single-storey building advertised in blue and yellow neon letters as Dennehy’s Lounge. In grey pebble-dash, it stood back from the intersection of roads, with a wide parking space in front of it. Dennehy’s was known for miles around, its regular clientele consisting entirely of country people. Harp Lager had supplied the neon sign, and in return was advertised prominently as well.

After the wedding ceremony a lift was arranged for Mary Louise and Elmer with Bleheen of the artificial-insemination unit, a ferrety man of the same age as Elmer, who was still pursuing his search for a suitable wife. The conversation in the car reminded Mary Louise of the conversation with the three diners at the Strand Hotel on the evening of her own wedding. She sat in the back and didn’t contribute to it.

‘Ah, it’s great you came on out,’ Letty greeted her when they entered the lounge bar. Still in her wedding-dress, Letty was smoking a cigarette.

‘No trouble at all,’ Elmer said.

For some weeks there had been unpleasantness in the house because Rose and Matilda had not been included in the wedding invitation. They were indignant, pointing out that since they were family relations the oversight was hurtful. When he asked Mary Louise if she’d have a word with her sister, all she’d done was to shake her head at him.

‘You’ll take a glass, Mr Quarry?’ the bridegroom’s father offered from behind the bar. ‘What’ll I pour you?’

Elmer replied that he’d like some whiskey. ‘An occasion and a half, sir,’ he added agreeably. ‘Wouldn’t we be correct to call it that?’

‘Oh, we would, Mr Quarry. He’s the lucky man for himself.’

‘He is of course.’

There the exchange of views terminated. Elmer returned to Mary Louise’s side. He shook hands with her father and with her mother. He remarked again upon the importance of the occasion.

‘Once in a lifetime, Elmer,’ Mr Dallon said.

‘That’s true enough, sir.’

Mrs Dennehy came up and reminded them that all drinks were on the house. She wore a lot of lipstick, Elmer noticed, for a woman of her age. Into the bargain her fingernails were scarlet. A huge woman she was, with a brassy voice.

‘What’ll I get you all?’ Mrs Dennehy arched her eyebrows, glancing hospitably from face to face. When a choice was made she turned away to fetch the drinks. Elmer wanted to take a look at her back but thought he’d better not. He said:

‘Wasn’t it great we could let Letty have the dress material at cost, Mr Dallon?’

‘It was good of you, Elmer.’

‘Any time we could oblige you in a matter like that, sir, just walk into the shop.’

The least he could do, Rose had said, was to mention the way they’d been treated to his in-laws. She’d come into the accounting office when he was up to his eyes and started on about it again. She’d wanted to know what Mary Louise had said when he’d put the thing to her, and he’d had to make up an excuse. ‘No more manners to them than tinkers,’ his sister snapped at him in the end. ‘What good did getting in with them do you?’

The good it did was that they had an extra pair of hands in the shop and in the house. He put it like that to her because that was the type of talk she understood. They should be glad of an extra pair of hands, he said, but Rose ignored that completely. She mentioned drink. It was the talk of the town, she said.

He took a drink now and again. He went out to get company, the way any man might. What company was there in the snapping and offence-taking that occurred three times a day in the dining-room? You could spend two hours playing billiards down in the YMCA with no cause to open your mouth except to issue a greeting to an elderly caretaker. ‘You’re drinking like a fish,’ Rose said.

Mrs Dennehy returned with a tray of glasses for Mary Louise and her mother and father. There was one for herself also, but nothing for him.

‘To the pair of them,’ Mrs Dennehy began, and Elmer interrupted. He pointed out that he would be unable to join in the toast, on account of having an empty glass. He began to move towards the bar, but Mrs Dennehy said she wouldn’t hear of it at a private function. She seized his glass, giving him her own to look after.

‘Let everyone hold on a minute!’ she commanded in her rumbustious way. ‘No one touch a drop till Mr Quarry is replenished!’

He couldn’t recall her ever coming into the shop. He’d have noticed her all right, the lipstick and the fingernails. He suddenly remembered walking into the front room when he was no more than fifteen, to find a similar build of woman trying on petticoats.

‘A drop of the hard stuff!’ She handed him his glass, and he noticed that there was more than a small one in it. They all joined in the toast except Mary Louise, who took it into her head to walk away. It embarrassed Elmer that she did so, in the company of her mother and father and Mrs Dennehy.

‘We’re pleased about it, Mrs Dennehy,’ Mr Dallon said, but Elmer doubted it: poor Protestants for donkey’s years, why would they be pleased to see their grandchildren brought up holy Romans?

‘I’m right pleased myself. Right pleased!’ Mrs Dennehy exclaimed. Her teeth were in proportion to the rest of her. When she addressed anyone she opened her mouth very wide, which might have contributed to the loudness of her voice. You could see all the way back to her molars.

‘It was a great spread you laid on for our own wedding,’ Elmer confided quietly to his mother-in-law, who seemed to be a bit out of things. ‘You did wonders that day, Mrs Dallon.’

He listened while Mrs Dallon told him that this wedding party, too, should be taking place at Culleen. But Mrs Dennehy had come over a month ago and put it to her that since such large numbers were expected, and since the Dennehys had such spacious premises and were in the business professionally, it might be in order to reverse the usual procedure. Letty had been in favour of that also, and reluctantly Mrs Dallon had given in.

‘Ah, you would of course. And wouldn’t you save a bit while you were at it?’

A familiar euphoria had begun to flow softly through Elmer. He’d taken to keeping a little John Jameson in the wall-safe in the accounting office, for any man would require a drink in certain circumstances. There was an expression Matilda had used one time: trapped like a squirrel she’d said he was. She was thinking of a time when they were children and a man had come into the shop with three squirrels in a cage, trying to sell them in some ignorant kind of way, beautiful soft fur, he kept saying. Their father had called Elmer and the girls downstairs so that they could get a close look at the creatures, and then had sent the man packing. In Elmer’s view being trapped wasn’t a bad description of his own predicament, but he had no intention of giving Matilda the satisfaction of knowing that he agreed with her. Ridiculous, he’d said when she made her observation. Another thing was that when you’d had a drink or two you got a predicament like that into proportion – which naturally he couldn’t have said to Matilda either.

‘Bullocks are fetching well,’ he remarked to his father-in-law. ‘What’s that I heard a hundredweight?’

‘Thirty-five last week.’

‘You’d not turn up your nose at that, sir.’

Mrs Dallon had watched Elmer finishing the first drink he’d been given quicker than anyone else. He was three-quarters of the way through the second and his neck and forehead had begun to glow. She glanced across the bar to where the bridegroom was standing with Letty and some people she didn’t know. To her relief, Dennehy appeared to be drinking some kind of fruit juice.

‘I haven’t a bullock to sell,’ Mrs Dallon heard her husband saying. ‘Unfortunately.’

She returned her attention to her younger daughter’s husband. His conversation wasn’t sensible. He was rambling in his speech, going on about what some bullock or other had fetched at a fair ten years ago. When Mrs Dennehy had been standing there he’d kept staring into her mouth. At one point he’d stood back in order to get a general view of her.

‘The biggest price ever paid in the town,’ he was saying now.

Dennehy, with his arm round Letty’s waist, was thinking she had a bit of style. She could hold her own on the family premises, calm as a cucumber. The dress suited her beautifully, greenish with shiny stuff run through it, threads that caught the light when she shifted. Underneath it, pinned to her straps, she was wearing the good-luck brooch he’d given her. The emerald engagement ring was still in place, with the gold band beside it.

‘Hullo,’ someone said, half behind him so that he had to turn his head. He dropped his arm from Letty’s waist and smiled at Mary Louise. ‘She’s all over the place,’ Letty had said earlier, asking him to be nice to her.

‘Hullo, Mary Louise, how are you?’

‘I’m fine. Are you OK yourself?’

‘Never better. Have you something in that glass?’

‘Oh yes, thanks.’

He heard Letty saying the honeymoon was a secret. When they’d still been undecided she’d mentioned places he’d never heard of before. Tramore he’d thrown in himself, and Tramore they’d agreed on.

‘I hope it’s all right with you, Mary Louise? The wedding?’

She nodded, a very slight movement of her head, her expression solemn. She looked as though she had weighed the matter up, as if she had actually wondered if it was all right or not. Dennehy felt reassured, but even so he wished his future sister-in-law was a little more forthcoming. She had committed an act of madness when she’d married Elmer Quarry, Letty said, and in her company Dennehy couldn’t help agreeing. Protestant girl or not, surely she could have done better than a draper nearly twice her age?

‘You heard I bought a house at Rathtrim?’ he said.

‘Letty told me that.’

‘We’ve had the builders in.’

‘It’ll be like she wants in that case.’

‘Oh, it’s not bad at all.’ He drank some of his pineapple juice. There was a small measure of gin in it, which gave it an edge. ‘They’ve only a few small things left to do. They’ll do them while we’re away.’

‘I’m sure they’ll have it ready for you.’

‘They’ll hear me a mile or two if they haven’t.’

The lounge-bar filled up. Mrs Dallon was joined by her sister Emmeline, who said she didn’t know anyone except the Edderys and Miss Mullover. Letty had invited other people she’d know, Mrs Dallon said, but they hadn’t arrived yet. Apparently they were sharing a car. ‘Would you say Elmer’s sober?’ she whispered, and both women observed him for a moment. He was still talking about livestock prices. They moved closer, still listening.

‘Are your sisters keeping well?’ Mrs Dallon interrupted when he’d gone on a little longer. It was typical of them not to attend Letty’s wedding, she had already observed to her sister. Typical to be snooty.

Elmer said his sisters were fine. Neither of those girls had ever had a day’s sickness in her life, he said. When they were small they’d maybe had the measles, he couldn’t remember was it measles or chicken-pox, but they never caught a cold. They could be in the shop all day with the stove going and germs coming in with the customers, but never a cold between them. The same with indigestion, nothing like it at all. Which was more than he could say for himself.

Mrs Dallon glanced at her sister and then at her husband. She’d never heard Elmer Quarry talking like that before, in the shop or out of it. After his own wedding he’d been propriety itself.

‘Will I get you another?’ he suggested, reaching out for their three glasses. Mrs Dallon put her hand over the top of hers. Winter’s Tale sherry it was, but a glass was enough.

‘Well, it’s good of you, Elmer,’ Mr Dallon said. ‘Will he get you something, Emmeline?’

‘Ah, no, no, I’m all right.’

‘He’s footless,’ Mrs Dallon said when Elmer had gone off.

‘He’s had a few certainly,’ her sister agreed.

Mr Dallon hadn’t noticed anything amiss, but on hearing this he realized that the draper was more easy-going than usual. He’d taken it with a pinch of salt when Letty had said her brother-in-law was drinking.

‘Stotious,’ Mrs Dallon pronounced.

While he was waiting for the drinks to be poured Elmer considered that there was no reason why he shouldn’t refer to the unpleasantness back in the house, since Rose and Matilda were under discussion and the conversation had to be kept going. He’d been asked how they were and there was no reason why the thing couldn’t be hinted at. He could hint at it when he gave out their drinks to them, best to get it out of the way, best not to have it hanging there.

‘Who weren’t invited?’ Mrs Dallon said.

‘Weren’t we talking about my sisters?’

‘Your sisters were invited, Elmer. I wrote the invitation out myself.’

He shook his head. The pair of them were fit to be tied, he said.

‘You didn’t get a written card yourself, Elmer. You and Mary Louise were taken for granted. But all the others on our side I wrote out.’

‘They heard about that all right. Only nothing came to the house for themselves.’

She had given the invitation to Mary Louise. One Sunday in March, having not been at the farmhouse since before Christmas, Mary Louise had arrived, as she used to in the past. Mrs Dallon had actually been writing out the invitations at the time and she’d given her the one for Matilda and Rose. Mary Louise had said they wouldn’t attend a Catholic wedding, but then had picked up the envelope, promising to pass it on to them anyway.

‘I’m sorry, Elmer. Please tell your sisters I’m very sorry. The invitation…’ Mrs Dallon paused and then began her sentence again. ‘The invitation must somehow have gone astray. That’s most upsetting.’

‘I wouldn’t have mentioned it only they took it hard.’

Listening to all this, Mr Dallon remembered Rose suggesting that Mary Louise should return to Culleen, to be looked after in the farmhouse. Suddenly he wished that that could be so, that she could be rescued from Elmer’s sisters. Clearly she’d been unable to bring herself to deliver the invitation to them. God alone knew what kind of a life she was leading.

‘Did you mind me remarking on it?’ Elmer’s bulk swayed a little, the top half of his body seeming to bow repeatedly. ‘Only they have me demented on that subject.’

At the other end of the long lounge-bar Baney Neligan was going through the words of a song, and Dennehy was doing his best to prevent him from singing them. Letty had specifically requested that there shouldn’t be singing. Her parents would hate it, she’d said.

‘Are you married yourself?’ he heard someone ask Mary Louise.

‘Yes, I am actually.’

‘You’re blind, Ger!’ someone else exclaimed. ‘This woman has a ring on her finger.’

Apologies were offered, and then the people moved away. Dennehy kept introducing Mary Louise to the wedding guests, but she didn’t seem much inclined to converse. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that she was on her own again, but to his relief he noticed her brother and the Eddery boys approaching her.

‘The hard man!’ Father Mannion, who had conducted the wedding service, struck him on the shoulder. Baney Neligan began to sing.

‘Is Mr Insarov young?’ ashed Zoya.

‘He’s a hundred and forty-four,’ Shubin snapped.

‘What are you laughing at, Mary Louise?’ James asked her, and she said she was only smiling.

‘How’re you doing, Mary Louise?’ one of the Eddery boys asked.

Her brother and the Eddery boys were smoking. They were drinking from pint glasses, holding them nonchalantly as if they were well used to glasses of that size.

‘I’m OK,’ she said.

‘God, I’ll never forget that.’ One of the Eddery boys recalled how he and his brother had tied the empty creosote tin to the bumper of Kilkelly’s car on Mary Louise’s wedding day.

The three of them laughed. The younger of the Eddery boys asked her if she liked it in the town. He wouldn’t be able to stand a town himself, he’d feel closed in.

‘D’you feel closed in?’ the older brother asked.

‘You get used to it.’

‘Din Lafferty came back from Birmingham.’

Mary Louise said she didn’t think she’d like Birmingham.

‘Lafferty couldn’t take it at all.’

When she and Elmer returned from their honeymoon his sisters welcomed them on the first-floor landing, Rose saying she’d wet the tea immediately because they must be parched. But first Elmer took her to the bedroom that had been his parents’ bedroom, which would now be theirs. The air was fusty there, the windows tightly closed, the wide double bed not made up. ‘They’ll tell you where the sheets are,’ he said, and in the dining-room he reminded his sisters that he would be moving out of his old room, that in future it could maybe be used to store stuff in.

‘D’you know Din Lafferty?’ the older Eddery brother asked her, and she said she’d seen him a few times in the past.

‘A right gawk,’ James said.

She moved away.

‘Come to see an old fellow?’ Her father smiled at her. Her mother and her aunt had been taken upstairs by Mrs Dennehy to admire the wedding presents. Elmer was at the bar with Bleheen.

‘Has Aunt Emmeline moved in yet?’ she asked her father.

‘Any day now.’

‘She’s lonely with Robert dead.’

‘Ah, it’s an awful old house for her. Sad old memories.’

‘What was he like, that man she married?’

‘Useless.’

‘In what way useless?’ Mary Louise asked.

‘He led that poor woman a dance. He’d have seen her starve before he’d step off a racecourse.’

She reminded her father that once he’d said the man they spoke of had charm to burn, but she didn’t receive a direct comment on that now.

‘I wouldn’t give you tuppence for him, Mary Louise. An awful streel of a fellow.’

‘Robert wouldn’t have been Robert if it hadn’t been for him.’

‘Well, no, that’s true, I suppose.’

There was surprise in her father’s voice, and for a moment Mary Louise almost told him that she and Robert had loved one another, first as children, and then when she was a married woman. Her father would keep it to himself, not wishing to cause anxiety: that was the way he was. She might have told him that Elmer came drunk to bed. She might have given the reason for their childless marriage. Her father would not have passed that on either. And would it matter that he knew all this, that the truth had been shared? It mightn’t matter at all, but at the same time it would distress him.

‘Father Mannion,’ a voice said, and a priest held out a hand for her father to shake. ‘How’re you doing, Mr Dallon?’

The priest was smiling, a big, pink, boyish face on a middle-aged man, a pink neck and forehead. He held his hand out to Mary Louise also, and she laid hers in it. ‘How are you, Mrs Quarry?’ he said.

She hated being called that. Ever since the funeral she had hated it. She didn’t listen when the priest and her father discussed some matter in businesslike tones, her father regularly nodding, the priest reaching out to press his arm every now and again. Gazing at the black cloth of Father Mannion’s sleeve, Mary Louise recalled the bottom sheet spread out on the bed that first evening in the Quarrys’ house, her own hands smoothing it. She walked round the bed itself to tuck it in, then spread the second sheet and smoothed away the wrinkles in that also. She remembered now the coldness of those sheets when later they slept together in his parents’ bed, he on the left side, she to the right.

‘Zinaida drank iced water all day,’ her cousin said, and Mary Louise turned away to smile. The old princess complained that so much iced water could not be good for a girl with a weak chest. As for herself, she had a toothache…

‘You have to be unmarried to be a bridesmaid,’ Letty said. ‘I told you, didn’t I, Mary Louise?’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘Is it that that upset you?’

Mary Louise said she hadn’t thought twice about the matter. Angela Eddery, in the same greenish shade as Letty, was the bridesmaid because the Edderys were distant relations.

‘I’m not upset,’ Mary Louise again assured her sister.

‘You’re different than you used to be.’

‘I’ll come out and see you when you’re settled down in the house.’

‘Yes, do,’ Letty urged, placing a hand on Mary Louise’s arm. ‘Anytime come out.’

Other voices had joined Baney Neligan’s now. A piano was being played; two girls had begun to dance. Men were crowded along the bar, talking and laughing. A uniformed garda, with his bicycle-clips still in place, searched through them to shake hands with Mr Dennehy. Two tinker children tried to enter the lounge-bar and were summarily ejected. Men she didn’t know put their arms round Letty’s waist or kissed her, saying it was their due. Mrs Dennehy went round the guests, announcing that there was a table laid out in the dining-room, down the passage next to the Ladies.

‘I remember him at the Christian Brothers’,’ Father Mannion informed Mr Dallon, referring to the bridegroom. ‘I used come in to give them a jaw. Your man sat at the end of a row.’ Mr Dallon said that was interesting, and Father Mannion added that those were great old days. ‘I better make the rounds,’ he said. ‘I have hands to shake myself.’

In an upstairs bedroom Mrs Dallon and her sister examined the wedding presents that were laid out on the candlewick cover of a bed and on the room’s dressing-table and on a larger table. There were plates and sheets, tablecloths, ashtrays, vases, cups and a teapot, an electric kettle, an electric iron, table-mats, more plates, cutlery, a salt and pepper set, a special kind of rolling-pin, a corkscrew, various kitchen implements, saucepans, a doormat, basins, bowls, jugs, baking dishes and a framed picture of the Virgin Mary, incorporating the Sacred Heart. This last offended Mrs Dallon. It had come from someone who was unaware of Letty’s religion, or else from someone who considered the reproduction a necessity in the household that was being set up. Letty wouldn’t hang it up, she’d surely put it behind something.

‘Ah, yes,’ Mrs Dennehy said hastily, noticing that Mrs Dallon’s attention had been caught by the picture. ‘That’s difficult certainly.’

‘Some lovely stuff here.’ Mrs Dallon was determined not to reveal her displeasure. There were bound to be awkwardnesses. There were areas that had to settle down in any mixed marriage, no good pretending.

‘Well, aren’t people generous, Mrs Dallon? When you come to the crunch of it you’ll find they’re generous.’

Other women entered the bedroom, Mrs Dallon and her sister left it. On a corner shelf on the landing there was a statue of a saint and downstairs there was a picture like the one Letty had been given, with a red light flickering below it. All of a sudden Mrs Dallon found herself wondering whom James would marry.

‘Doesn’t the green suit Letty?’ Angela Eddery came close to Mary Louise to voice her admiration. She had a way of doing that, of speaking in hushed, reverential tones with her packed, pressed-out teeth a few inches from the face of the person she addressed. Her breath was warm.

‘Does it suit myself, Mary Louise? It suits Letty all right, but I wondered about myself?’

‘Mary Louise,’ another voice said, upbraiding her. ‘You didn’t give that invitation to Rose and Matilda. Why didn’t you, pet?’

She did her best to explain. Her mother said if there ever was anything that upset her she should bring the worry out to Culleen. That was what home was for.

‘Of course it is, pet,’ her mother pressed, even though Mary Louise hadn’t sought to deny this opinion. Somewhere in the crowd, a little earlier, she had glimpsed the wrinkled features of Miss Mullover. The old schoolteacher was someone she could tell, someone who wouldn’t be upset, as her father would have been.

‘I haven’t seen you for ages, Mary Louise.’ Her aunt’s weather-chapped face was there also. Whatever she’d chosen to drink had caused it to redden even further. ‘Are you keeping well these days?’

‘Yes, I am. What’ll become of the soldiers when you sell the house? And the books and things?’

There was a pause. Then her aunt said:

‘There’ll be an auction. Your father thought an auction was best.’

Mary Louise wondered about Robert’s clothes. A dead person’s clothes were sometimes given to charity, unless they were sold because money was short. You wouldn’t auction clothes; she’d never heard of that.

‘What’ll happen to his watch?’

‘I’ll keep his watch, dear.’

Her aunt smiled at Mary Louise as she spoke. When would the auction be? Mary Louise asked, and her aunt said the second of May, all being well.

‘Will you give away his clothes?’

The question appeared to cause consternation. Her mother asked Mary Louise to repeat it, which she did.

‘There’s a family in need,’ her aunt said eventually, ‘due to the father being out of work.’.

Pressed further by Mary Louise, she added:

‘That dingy blue-washed cottage on the Clonmel road.’

Responding to Mrs Dennehy’s invitation, some of the guests had visited the dining-room and were now sitting at the tables in the bar, eating from cardboard plates. Miss Mullover, with modest portions of tongue and salad, saw Mary Louise on her own and waved across the room at her. The rumours about Elmer Quarry were true, she’d been thinking only a moment before. She’d seen for herself this afternoon: his eyes bleary, the lids inclined to droop. Like a sack of something, she’d thought, slouched against the counter of the bar.

‘Hullo, Mary Louise.’

Every time she met her, the girl seemed more reticent. You had to prise responses out of her now. ‘This tongue’s good,’ she said, but the recommendation elicited no comment whatsoever. Then, as if reading those thoughts, Mary Louise answered a polite query about her husband’s well-being by suddenly becoming garrulous. Elmer was a harmless man, she said; he meant no ill-will. He had never struck anyone in his life; he never got into a rage; he never shouted; in all sorts of ways he didn’t bother her.

‘D’you remember, Miss Mullover, how my cousin always finished his transcription first? He used to scribble on the inside of his jotter cover. My cousin Robert?’

Miss Mullover, surprised, failed to remember that.

‘We were in love you know, my cousin Robert and I. In your schoolroom we were in love. We still were when he died. We’ve always belonged to one another.’

Elmer and Bleheen were interrupted at the bar. Mary Louise was suggesting they should go home.

‘Home’s where the heart is,’ Elmer said, remembering the expression suddenly, something his mother used to say. He lowered his voice. He’d had the whole thing explained, he said: an invitation had been issued but it had never reached the house. He was to carry her mother’s apologies back to Rose and Matilda.

‘Can we go now, Elmer?’

‘We’ll take a quick one for the road in that case,’ Bleheen said, raising his empty glass for attention.

‘Five minutes, dear,’ Elmer put in, ‘while Mr Bleheen charges his batteries.’

The remark was not made humorously but even so the artificial-inseminator laughed. ‘The three of us’ll charge our batteries,’ he declared. ‘What’ll you take yourself, dear?’

‘No, I’m all right, Mr Bleheen.’

Mrs Dennehy appeared at her side, reminding her about the display of wedding presents upstairs. ‘Your mother’s been up, along with your aunt. Wouldn’t you slip up yourself?’

‘Go up and enjoy yourself dear,’ Elmer urged; but Mary Louise said they’d better be getting back. She’d ask her mother to describe the wedding presents when she saw her next.

‘Well, wasn’t it a great send-off for your sister?’ Bleheen said in the car. ‘Not a ha’penny spared.’

Elmer, beside him in the front, agreed. The time by the dashboard clock was five past five. As soon as they heard the key in the lock they’d be out on the landing, waiting, the way they’d taken to doing. They’d start in at once about the house smelling like a distillery, as though any normal person could go out to a party and not return bringing traces of festivity with him. Mary Louise would walk past them, different from the way she used to be, not timid in their presence any more. What he’d do would be to stay where he was for a few minutes in the hall, and then walk into the accounting office. After ten minutes or so he’d slip down to Hogan’s.

‘All right, are you, dear?’ He half turned his head to address his wife, but she didn’t appear to hear him.