“You’d be better off keeping out of the courts,” interrupted the man, “if you can. The courts are cat. I had to fight through the courts with a neighbour of mine to retain a right-of-way.” He moved a salt cellar into the middle of the bar counter. “Do you see that? Let’s say that’s my place.” He shifted an ashtray. “That’s the field.” A bottle of stout was the neighbour’s house and his empty glass was the German’s. He flicked a penny on the counter, then moved it into position. “And that’s the right-of-way. Now.” He reviewed the forces he had collected. Took a long draught from his glass of stout. “I wanted the right-of-way to go down here,” he said, lifting the bottle of stout, “as it always used to do till certain parties put their nose in.”

“Excuse me,” objected Catherine, “that’s the neighbour’s house you’re moving.”

“Oh.” He studied the bar counter intently. He touched the salt cellar with uncertainty and looked at Catherine. She shook her head. “Hell and damnation!” he exclaimed. He drank again. He lifted the ashtray. “This lad was it?”

“No,” replied Catherine. “I do believe that’s the field.”

“Christ! Where did you get this lady?”

He studied the position, his arms gripped round his chest.

“The penny, is it?” he asked tentatively.

Catherine saw his mother at the uncurtained window as they crossed the street. She was not looking at them. Her arms were folded under her heavy breasts. When they entered the house they could hear a radio playing. Pictures of musicians hung from the walls. There was a piano in the room to the left and next to it a sideboard packed with bizarre trophies. They climbed a small staircase. As they came into the dining room, which had a wall devoted to medals, more trophies and green-fringed certificates, his mother continued to look out onto the street.

“Mother,” said Jack, “this is Catherine.”

The woman turned.

“I saw you go into the pub across the street hours ago,” she said. “And I said to myself, I won’t see them again today.”

She shook Catherine’s hand, then she lowered the radio. She was a tall full woman with a hat wrapped to the back of her head like a clenched fist. There was a white smoothness to her shins. She took Catherine’s hand and held it between her breasts. She drew the younger woman’s image into her unglazed brown eyes.

“You have lovely skin,” Mrs Ferris concluded. “I remember when I was like you.” With a sigh she let her go. “Would you like a drink?”