‘Ah, yes. I can see the guitar, and I can hear her, laughing, but I can’t rightly remember her face. Oh, damn this, she keeps floating off …’ She put her head in her hands. ‘It’s no use, I can’t see her, damn it, damn it …’ she said, getting agitated.

‘It’s OK, Jane,’ I said, ‘take your time, maybe have a sleep? She’ll come back.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

I was just about to close my eyes, breathe through my own pain, when Jane lurched forward again, energised. ‘Oh, now, the guitar, yes, well, you see, she learned of an old Martin guitar brought back from the States by an uncle who used to live in Chicago,’ she said, ‘and I cannot, for the life of me, cannot, remember the uncle’s name.’ She was unnervingly specific at times, her bright eyes ablaze with another time; recalling people seemed to give her memory a welcome distinction. ‘Ah, yes, the uncle said he was friends with Dick McPartland,’ she said.

There was something about the odd specifics that was upsetting.

‘And that it was Dick’s guitar, after he’d had the heart attack, he’d given it away. But this is a lie, you see, Ann told me that she believed McPartland never played a Martin guitar, these kind of things held great importance to her, and I never forgot a word she said to me. I remember it all, verb … verbal …’

‘Verbatim?’ Margaret Rose said.

‘Yes, that,’ Jane said. ‘Ah, Ann had notions, she was off to America to find jazz. Jazz! Did you ever hear the like?’ she said, smiling. ‘But that was Ann.’

‘Where’d she learn ta play?’ Margaret Rose asked.

‘Ah, well, the guitar playing had come from the Hegartys’ side, really, her father was a great musician, in the trad sense … they were session musicians.’

Yeah. I knew, hard, strumming tight, feet tapping, keeping the hands close into the body, like Irish dancers, a restrained madness, attempting to express the unsayable.

Then Jane started at Margaret Rose. ‘Did Tom come up the fields yet? Would you like a cup of tea? Here, I’ll make it for you. This isn’t my bedroom, dear, is it? No matter how much searching I do, I cannot, cannot for the life of me, find the kitchen here.’

‘No … it’s not, it’s not your bedroom. You’re in Hospital, Jane. On the Ward …’ I said.

Margaret Rose shook her head, looked at me, and put a finger to her mouth. Perhaps it was better if we were quiet.

‘Ah, yes, I’m on the Ward, amn’t I? That’s correct. Thank you.’

‘Ya are, love, ya were talking about Ann,’ Margaret Rose said back, quietly, her voice tired.

‘Ah, yes, Ann. I was so sick the night Ann Hegarty was leaving. I’d a bad fever and it hadn’t broken. I’d cried myself into it. Then I’d screamed and stuck my head into a pillow. They didn’t know what was wrong with me and of course I couldn’t tell them.’