“You’d be fooling yourself,” Bohola continued, “if you ever said you were really happy.”

Jack agrees. The hairdresser sits down. “I can call no one,” she complains. “The phone is closed down except for local calls. But I know no one here.” She places her hands on her knees. “I should not be here. My husband took away my car keys and had me put in here. I should be elsewhere.” She gives the men a quick sweep of her eyes so that they might understand she comes from another place altogether.

“Sligo,” she says fretfully, aware that she should not be boasting, “Sligo is a superior hospital.” She tut-tuts. “Have you been to Sligo Hospital?” she asks Jack in a deliberately kind manner.

“No,” he replies.

“If I could have only got my sleep,” she thinks out loud, wistfully, “I could have got home for Christmas Day. But do you think could I get any sleep here? Never. I’ve just had a baby,” she explains. “She’s over the road in the General Hospital and I’m here. But my husband is a good man. He is a good man!” She looks askance at Jack. “They’ve promised to bring me over to see my baby tomorrow. I want you there to help me.”

“I’ll be with you,” said Jack.

“You are a good man too,” said the hairdresser.

Over in the corner an argument starts about Val Doonican and Christmas and Christians. Like the wandering plots of the films, it cannot be unravelled. Jack suddenly wants something to do. To be useful. To be occupied. Like the sick man in pyjamas putting everything away – vases into vases, ashtrays into ashtrays.

“Is Glenroe on tonight?” he asked.

“I would not have taken you to be a fan,” said the nurse.

Beside Jack the old fellow breathes sleep through his nostrils like a child humming in his cot.

Jack stares at the same space. But her face is going. Dawn is coming in. Dawn light is washing her features away. On the hour he awaits the male nurse’s visit and his gentle enquiry. The rest wake into a world that he has not left. They sit in the ward on the side of their own beds, then moments later all move to one bed, and sit there smoking and talking in quiet voices. They are neighbours. Neighbours here, and neighbours at home. They might have just met on the street, crossed a field to the other fellow’s house. Then they walk the corridors with an air of quiet expectancy like you’d come down the stairs on Christmas morning wondering what had been left for you below during the night.