She began talking of ridiculous plans. When summer came they would leave Belfast. They must leave Belfast, she said. They would go to Europe. They could go anywhere they wanted. “You see,” she said, “I can’t bear it anymore. I don’t want to become a cynic. When we argue I often feel like killing myself. My work suffers when we fight. I suffer, you suffer. But the nightmares are getting worse. Every day I’m full of new grievances. We could go South.”

“You think so?”

“I could get a job there with some theatre.”

“And what about your work here?”

“What would you know about that? I never see you. You turn up drunk on my opening nights. You’re doing things of which I don’t approve. I thought you would take care of me. Do you hear me? I thought you would take care of me.”

“I hear you.”

“There’s only so much of this I can take.”

“I realize that.”

“We could live together somewhere and have children.”

“Do you want children?”

She stiffened. “Why,” she cried angrily, “what’s wrong with that! Do you not want children?”

She let go of him. He lay looking at the ceiling.

“This is a terrible life we are leading, you know that,” said Jack.

“Do you think other people go on like we do?”

“If they do,” said Jack, “I’m sorry for them.”

She did not argue on, for she remembered that it was not so long ago since he could have been indescribably cruel to her if he had wanted to. She lay beside him, deep in a womanly despair that seemed to embrace everything.

“Hugh!” he shouted, “there’s water in the engine room.”

“Jack,” she whispered. “Jack.”

He struggled fiercely.

“We have to get out of here.” He climbed out and began to drag the bed across the floor. “Jack!” she called. She turned on the light. He stopped immediately.

“Jack,” she said, “it’s me. Catherine.” She approached him fearfully.

“I heard you shouting,” he explained. He lay down and went back to sleep.

IV. The Musical Bridge

IV

THE MUSICAL BRIDGE

26. Flying in Belfast

26

Flying in Belfast

He was sitting by his empty typewriter with a raging toothache when the telephone rang.

“Ha-ho.”

“Eddie.”

“I hear you’re doing a bit of theatre in West Belfast.”

“That has fallen through.”

“Oh. Have you got that new play you promised me?”

“Not yet.”

“Could I look at what you’ve done so far?”

“Why?”

“I’ve been offered to direct a play of my choice, sometime late next year.”

“I’ve done nothing.”

“Right. So how do you spend your time up there?”