“How is Thady?” asked Doctor Ferris.

“He’s fine.”

“Another lost cause,” said Mrs Ferris. “My brother had everything.”

“Back in the old days we had it terrible,” announced Doc Ferris. “Now there’s a question that never can be answered – why did the people near the coast die of starvation during the Famine and they a stone’s throw from the sea?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“It’s simple. You can’t fish in winter, and that’s six months of the year gone. And you can fish buck-all if you have no boats. And they had no boats. That’s the way it was.”

“You were not half-fed,” agreed Jack. “And that’s why you are like you are today. The balance was upset.”

“Too much white bread,” said Ma Ferris, “that’s what’s wrong with Ireland.”

“Too much white bread,” agreed Jack, “and the dog will have fits.”

“We are all touched,” declared the doctor. “Do you know who the insurance companies in England consider the highest risk in life insurance?” he asked Catherine.

She answered immediately. “RUC men.”

“No,” he said, “dentists. And why? Because they are always doing away with themselves. For you see looking into someone else’s mouth day-after-day drives you demented.”

“Then there’s laughing gas,” said his wife.

“There is. Now a doctor is not under such pressure.”

“Can’t the bully boy deprecate himself when he wants to,” Ma Ferris murmured low.

“Is plenty of money good? I often ask myself,” the doctor said, and he moved and sat down beside Catherine. “Is plenty of money good, daughter?” he asked her.

“Why don’t you quit driving the poor girl wild with your questions,” said Ma Ferris, “and go down to the piano.”

The four of them went down the stairs followed by the dog. The doctor put on a wild green jacket with the Comhaltas crest on the top pocket and sat down with his back to them at the piano. He assumed a new personality and struck a chord. The dog fled under the settee. The doctor struck another chord, looked round once and nodded. Watched by the two women, Jack, with his arms perfectly straight down by his side, stood in the centre of the small room. His father found the tune. Jack went up onto his toes.

She hung her clothes in what used to be his room as a child. It was just off the dining room. He stayed outside talking to his mother after the father had returned across the street to his surgery. She looked at the photographs on the wall of him at his first Communion, at his Confirmation, in the arms of some young woman. She looked at photos of him bare-legged as he danced in a kilt and check waistcoat. Late that night he came into the room.