She had been meant to go onwards with him to the States, but at the last minute, entirely on a whim, she had disembarked from the SS America at Cobh harbour and made her way to Dublin. There, through endeavours the nature of which remained vague, she had managed to set herself up in what was to become a successful practice, in spacious rooms in a handsome house on Fitzwilliam Square. It was no small achievement, given that psychiatry was frowned on by the State and anathematised by the Catholic Church – only God had the right to delve into the human soul.

Her success was as much of a surprise to her as it was to others. Quirke told her it was easily explained. The country had been crying out for her, he said, without either she or the country being aware of it. He reminded her that in his will, Jonathan Swift had bequeathed a madhouse to Dublin, since, as the dismal Dean had observed, no place was more in need of one.

She had listened to him gravely, and said he should not use that word.

‘Which word?’

‘Mad.’

Sure enough, a burning sensation had started up behind his breastbone – that damned, so-called brandy.

‘Are you telling me there aren’t mad people in the world?’ he had asked, with mock innocence.

‘“Mad” is a meaningless concept. But, of course, yes, there are many people who are sick in their minds.’

‘And you’re here to cure them,’ he had said, with a scornful smile, and immediately regretted both the words and the smile.

She had ignored his scorn, however, and pondered the question in silence for some moments.

‘As I have told you many times, there is no cure. No cure, that is, from what you call madness. There is only – what is the word? – amelioration. Surely you have read of the woman suffering from severe neurosis who went to Freud and asked him if he could cure her. Freud said no, he couldn’t do that, but he believed what he could do was restore her to a state of ordinary unhappiness.’ She had touched his hand and smiled. ‘That was wise, yes? The old man was always wise.’

Quirke could only agree, and look away. He knew a thing or two about ordinary unhappiness.

Chapter 6

They walked along the sloped streets leading down from the Old Town, and came to the seafront. There were other  couples out strolling, aimless and dreamy, like them, perhaps also a little tipsy, as they were. The sea tonight was as smooth and flat as an oval of black glass, traversed by a track of moonlight the colour of tarnished gold. Somewhere a palm court orchestra was playing an old-fashioned, soupy number that Quirke recognised but couldn’t put a name to. The music billowed back and forth through the soft night air, waltzing with itself.

‘I suppose our being so easy like this makes you anxious, yes?’ Evelyn said.