Jack filled the glasses with whiskey. His father appeared at the back of the room followed by a dog. Doc Ferris had priestly, groomed hair and a dark-shaved chin that constantly moved as he chewed on his thoughts. His blue, larkish eyes took in, with quick movements, what was happening each side of Catherine. “Isn’t it wonderful,” he said.

“Catherine.” Still holding her hand, he surveyed Jack. Then, returning to her, he said: “So this is Catherine. You’re looking at our display.”

“I was just wondering.”

“So you’re not into the music?”

“When I was young I used to play the trumpet.”

“I’m a Comhaltas man myself,” he explained and he tapped a certificate on the wall. “I was in on its founding. And these –” he indicated the trophies – “these belong to that boy there.”

“Do they?” she said peering down to read the gold scrolls.

“I’m surprised Jack did not tell you that he was once an All-Ireland step-dancer.”

“He never mentioned it,” she said wide-eyed.

“There you are.” He turned courteously to his son. “Oh, Jack was the boy that could dance. We drove together to every Fleadh in the country from when he was six years of age.”

“They were always on the road, affirmed his wife.”

“Listowel, Mullingar, Wexford – we were there.”

“It was dancing from morning to night,” agreed Mrs Ferris.

“Any place you care to mention. I played and he danced.”

“That was it.”

“Then he took up the writing. And that was the end of the dancing.”

“And the end of the medicine too,” said his mother.

Doc Ferris sat down. Catherine and Jack sat down. She was vaguely conscious of the collie dog as he spun by her feet. He dug his snout into the carpet and turned on his back to display his loins. “I know you,” she said. “Aye,” said Jack, “that’s Daisy.” Catherine was suddenly embarrassed that the only person in the room she could talk to was the dog. She patted him. He rested his wet snout on her shoe.

“Was there many across in Leyden’s?”

“A few,” said Jack.

“Has this fellow told you,” asked Ma Ferris, “that he was a bit of a playboy?”

“Yes,” said Catherine, fretfully.

“He left others,” she said. “And if he left others he’ll leave you.”

“You should not say that to the girl,” announced the doctor.

“There was no one could advise him,” continued Ma Ferris. “He could have stepped into the practice across the street if he had finished the medicine. But no! Galway destroyed him. And now he’s out there in the wilds of Mullet. Fishing! My good God! But what’s the use?”

“I saw the salmon in the fridge,” said the doctor helpfully.

“Oh, but this is a terrible life, isn’t it, daughter?” Ma Ferris pressed the balls of her hands into her flowery thighs and shook her head.

Catherine felt like a big frightened child.