“Yes, Theo,” she said. “He’s from Belfast.”

“Yes.”

“And what’s he doing here?”

“Fishing.”

“He’s dangerous,” she said.

“You think so?”

“I do,” she replied. “First you leave me with a British soldier lying asleep on a sofa in the house in Belfast, and now I come here to find you tagging along with a Provo.”

“He’s not a Provo.”

“In fact, I think you might be getting out of your league. You don’t discriminate.”

“He’s all right.”

“No, he’s not all right.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“No,” she answered severely. “I’m Protestant.”

She slipped off her jeans, tights and knickers in one go and stood in a man’s shirt before him in the centre of the room.

“Will you stand back from the window,” whispered Jack.

“The only person that could be found out there at night looking in at women as they undress,” she answered, “is you.”

“Tell me all your dirty stories,” asked Jack feverishly.

“They only make you sad, you know,” she said, “and then you get these unexplainable white spots on your cheeks. It’s not good for you.” She held him to her shoulder. “If only you’d hold me and talk to me and kiss my breasts it would be enough.”

He smelt of oil, sweat and fish. His face had a travelled, distant look as he lay beside her smoking.

“Did you go off with anyone?” he asked with a beating heart.

“Not consciously.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I didn’t.”

She cradled his fist in her hands. His breathing matched hers. But already their night together was over. He turned the religious pictures so that they faced into the room again. They descended the stairs in the dark house. On the coat stand he left £20. She walked with him down to the pier. In the darkness men were moving past the lights in the cabins. The radars were already turning, radios were spinning across various frequencies. Food was being passed down by hand. Gas canisters lowered.

No one talked.

The engines began to hum. Then started a deeper throb. The engine coolers shot out jets of seawater. The pier bristled with light. And before she knew it, the Blue Cormorant was casting off its ropes. At the point where he was about to step down onto the boat she said: “Don’t go.”

“I have to.”

“It was very beautiful last night,” she said.

“It was,” he said.

“When do I see you again?” she called.

“The weekend after next in Belmullet.”

“What?”

“Belmullet!” he shouted over the roar of the engines. “In Belmullet!” he roared through cupped hands.