There was an infinitesimal seam in her black stockings. She was a tall young woman in a grey, shapeless jumper. Lean, athletic, sure-footed. Black skirt, black slippers. The blond hair that fell into her eyes was kicked out behind. “God is good,” said O’Muichin. “He sent me you.” Catherine was glad that O’Muichin had cheered up. They talked of the disparity between different places, of things happening in different places simultaneously. Stepping over a stream there was the sensation of one hand letting the other hand go. Pure-wool clouds floated in a crevice of the mountains on Achill. Then a sudden squall.

“County Mayo,” said Catherine.

“That’s right,” said O’Muichin. “And what are you going to be?”

“An actress,” said Catherine.

“Well,” said he, “you have a beautiful speaking voice.”

“Thank you,” she said. She reached over and kissed her teacher’s cheek. A furious barking began. The two of them had to stand on a stone wall to avoid a cross dog until a boy, who appeared out of a nearby house, called him away.

“C’mon away you fucker, you,” shouted the boy. “And the fucker isn’t even ours. Ga lang out-a-that. Look at the head on him,” he shouted. “Come up out of there. Go on!” Still shouting at the dog, the boy passed out of sight. And again O’Muichin took his notebook out of his pocket and jotted down in a terse style all he had seen and heard.

The following week O’Muichin passed on to the Irish for trees, but it was obvious that he was learning more from the girls than they were from him. He was learning a Northern language that was archaic. Like Jack Ferris long after him, he listened in awe to their succinct vocabulary that had about it an eroticism, a seduction, a wry humour, and a strange undertone of despair. And he was aware all the time that he must not succumb. As the days passed he became a strange bird. The notebook was never out of his hand, then he’d break out into long, abstract speeches, the gist being that the girls should keep diaries of their lives, for he felt that they had a gift greater than his, and he did not mind admitting it.

But he could not get them to be serious.

“We’re not that foolish,” replied Sara, “to write down what we really think.”

“We’re only passing through,” said Catherine, though his would be the first name that would go into her book.

“My trouble is I wrote a book in Irish. In Irish it was spare and true. Now they want it in English, and in English I’ve added things I’ve never seen.”

“I don’t understand,” said Catherine.

“It’s this,” explained O’Muichin. “You pair have entered my story. I’ll be stuck with you for ever.” Then he quoted Kafka: