He felt terrible shame. The full force of his curse was returning on himself. He looked at the envelopes, knowing that they would be dated weeks previous, before all this nightmare began. It would be better if he didn’t know, if he threw them away altogether. They contained possibilities that were no longer available to him. Then he searched through the cottage for something he couldn’t find. He was sick and shaking. With the usual distress of the drinker he fought to establish his physical terrain. He started to sweep out the kitchen. Today he was going to start again, right from the beginning. As he started each morning. He began at the back door. He cleaned every item in the kitchen, then he brushed out the bedroom. He settled his papers in the third room. He lit a fire and put on water to boil. He sat down before the fire and smoked a cigarette which brought on waves of nausea.

He lifted the envelopes and looked at them. He looked at the stamps. He looked at the Dublin postmarks. He looked at the handwriting on the letters without trying to understand what was written there. He lifted the postcard, and read the first line again – Jack, I love you. Then he replaced it on the table. Dizzy with anxiety, he made tea.

He boiled cloths in a saucepan, he fed Daisy, he fed the wild cat, he cleaned the gas stove again. Today, he said. It will happen today. He stood in a basin in the middle of the floor and washed himself.

He lifted the postcard up to the light of a window. Dear Jack, I love you. Whatever bad things we’ve done should be forgotten. I am always yours. We have only each other. I’ve written to you over and over explaining everything. I’m sending you this card because of the picture on the front. He turned it over. There was a picture of a corncrake. Do you remember? We’ll have good days again. Every day from now I will write to you. You are never out of my mind. I am sober, she wrote, you are sober and I love you. I love you dearly.

It was what he had prayed she’d write to him and now he could not take it in. His eyes clouded over. I still have a chance, one part of his mind was saying. A few weeks ago she wrote this. He read the eight letters, but with each declaration of her love, the worse his despair became. Each day I will write to you. And he had been walking the peninsula, oblivious.

He cursed himself.