For days he had been tormented by despair while the letters awaited him in the sick man’s house. While he was lying sleepless her love notes were sitting in Bernie’s house down the road. And by the time he had read them the affair was over. She had never intended coming down. Not from the moment the gardener told her I was back drinking. All that waiting was in vain. Words for which he had waited day after day now arrived when it was too late, and yet, like the first letter, they bore the news he craved. He lay on the bed, his heart beating. Is this it now? The same flesh-coloured light shone down. He jumped up and sat on the chair. But it was not hard enough. He lay on the cement floor in front of the smouldering fire. Again he was down to the one second. The minute that contained it. And the hour that contained the minute. The minutes that contained the seconds. The half-second.

Once more he made the journey to a phone.

He rang the theatre, but there came only a reply from the answering machine: Leave a message after the beep! The tape turned, but he said nothing, only whispered: “Catherine”. He did not know what to do. He went back to the cottage carrying a bottle of vodka. Terrible memories propelled him round the three rooms. But he could find no place where the reconciliation might begin.

“Jack!” Hugh cried from the kitchen. Hugh came into the bedroom. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right.”

“You’d better get up.”

“I am up!”

“No you’re not. You’re in bed.”

“I can see that.”

“Did you have anything to eat?”

“I’ve just had my breakfast, haven’t I,” he replied bad-temperedly. “Hugh?”

“Yeh.”

“Go away.”

“No.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“The kettle is on.”

“OK, OK. I’ll be with you in a minute.” He pulled on his yellow cape and green waterproof trousers.

“Jack,” said Hugh, “we’re not going out to sea.”

Jack sat on a kitchen chair.

“Where are we going?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I think we’ll go for a drink,” Jack said eventually.

“I’d like that,” said Hugh cheerfully.

Jack pulled off the oilskins.

“Will you drive me to Castlebar?”

“I will.”

“Will you look after the livestock? I’ll be a few days away.”

“The children will like that.”

“Take what it costs out of that.”

“I don’t need your money,” but Jack pressed a twenty-pound note into his pocket. He packed a bag. Put the wild kitten in a cardboard box. Called Daisy, and the dog leapt into the back of the car.

They drove down to O’Malley’s pub in Corrloch.

The bar was empty.

“Now I know what’s happening,” Jack declared.

“That’s good.”