The next time Jack called it was raining, so Catherine ushered him in, and without embarrassment he greeted Mrs Adams, who was sitting in a thick cotton nightdress by the fire.

“I think it’s Jack,” Catherine said.

“Jack Ferris,” he agreed.

“What side of the house are you?” her mother asked.

“Catholic, oh my dear.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Maisie, and she laughed and added: “Once you have your health.”

“That’s right.”

“Sit down, Jack,” gestured Catherine.

“That’s a bad night,” he nodded.

“So, you are the writer,” Maisie viewed him, “that’s been chasing our Sara.”

Jack looked at Catherine uneasily. The large parcel he was carrying he rested on the floor.

“Where’s Daisy tonight?” asked Catherine, helpfully.

“He’s about.”

“I shouldn’t bother myself over our Sara if I was you,” advised Mrs Adams. “Our Sara has ambitions. She’s off to become famous.”

“So I heard.”

“A Catholic man,” explained Maisie to her daughter, “always appears easy going.”

“We have our problems, too,” he said.

And Maisie replied: “I don’t doubt it. I fell for one myself once upon a time.”

“Did it not work out?”

“I think he got himself in trouble. One day he wasn’t there any more.”

“That will happen too.”

They laughed scandalously, Catherine realized, like people that had known each other for a long time.

“So I suppose,” he enquired smiling, “marriage is out of the question.”

“I think you’d be barking up the wrong tree there,” said Maisie laughing merrily. “My daughters like to keep their options open.”

Maisie leaned a little confidentially towards him. She peered unashamedly at his face. “Look, Cathy, at the lovely curly black hair he has.”

“Aye,” said Jack, “and eyelashes, I’m told, that a woman would be proud of.”

“Hark,” said Maisie, “at the modesty of that. A true Irishman.”

In reply, Jack moved his parcel again.

“All right,” said Catherine, “out with it.”

“What?” he spoke gruffly, hoisting an eye in her direction.

“What’s in the parcel?”

“Oh, that,” the inflexion was casual. “Oh, that’s something I brought for the house here.”

“Now,” chuckled Maisie.

He made Catherine gently lift the parcel onto the table. “Careful,” he said. She undid the string that held the newspaper. Then, still in its wrapping, she lifted the unknown object out of the cardboard box. “It’s a bit rickety,” he advised. She opened the newspaper to display the glass head of an oil lamp decorated with red and blue flowers.

“Well I never,” said Maisie. “Of all things.”

Her bemusement rocked Jack. From the box he took a brass paraffin dome. He wound a wad of soaked wick into the grill. “Strike the lights,” said Jack, as he handed her the glass. Catherine switched off the lights. He lit a match. Catherine screwed the glass down. The wide kitchen filled with a deep rosy glow.

“Why, it’s beautiful,” said Catherine.