The room was immaculate. A fire was set in the grate of an old black fireplace that had a bit of gold paint outlining it. The brass bed was neat, one of Bridie’s brightest patchwork quilts pulled tight across it. I slipped my hand under it, past the wool blanket to the sheet. Did John Johns know about undoing a girl? Did he know about kissing way south of the border properly in bandit country? Probably not; probably it was just something they did in France where it was warmer.

I blinked the thought away to see that the whole back wall was a bookcase! The joy hit me full in the face. It was like being back in the utter peace of the convent reference library, breathing in the smell of paper that had been through a thousand hands and minds.

I read the spines in the gloom. There were books on horticulture, design, some on photography, Thomas Hardy, Frank O’Connor, Henry Fielding, Patrick Kavanagh, Oscar Wilde, James Joyce, Shakespeare, Wilfred Owens, somebody called Rimbaud stood just by Seamus Heaney. Where would I start? I would start with Heaney, my old friend from school. I pulled it from the shelf and sat down on the bed which let me know it was made of springs. On the inside front cover it said To John from Father Pat O’Connell on the occasion of your 16th birthday. Father Pat’s boy was emerging from the shadows.

–  I thought you weren’t going to be my wife?

–  Jesus! John! You scared the life out of me! Where did you come from?

–  That’s a strange question to ask a man when you have evidence in your hand?

–  Oh! I meant, now, now? I wasn’t expecting you back and this stuff needed putting away. I didn’t mean to pry …

–  I know you’re not prying; you’ve had months to pry if you were remotely interested in me.

–  I’m not interested in you and you’re not interested in me, remember?

The black eyes narrowed. He couldn’t argue that the stand-off had been instigated by him, so he left. I’d just dropped my shoulders and sat back down on the bed when he reappeared in the doorway to scare me afresh. Jesus, how did he do that in a house where every bloody floorboard creaked? I shot off the bed like I’d been electrocuted!

–  You’re welcome to borrow a book if you want, Mary. After all, what’s mine is yours!