And Birdie didn’t expect that Hughie was all that thrilled to see him. But it was two o’ clock in the afternoon, and poor Hughie couldn’t resist the idea of the public houses, and then a comfortable lift home. The pair of them were in Bernie’s Tavern in Crosshill, apparently all that afternoon with their backs to the wall, and not a word out of either of them.

Like monks in Glenstal. And sometimes Hughie moving his lips in some secret conversation with himself. What was that about? His back straight as a rush, and him in his late seventies. Just staring straight ahead. And the boy beside him. Well. Maybe he was thinking of the old days. And the girl in the bar said he supped his pint as if it was buttermilk.

They probably drove home in silence too. Not of course that Hughie would even remember that time in Kerry. Sure, to him that was only a few days’ fun. Followed by another few days with more fun.

The enclosed world Birdie was entering would have meant nothing to Hughie. He didn’t seem to understand marriage. He had fun all the time. Years of high jinks and capers and play-acting! An eternity of it probably! And his face bronze from the sun. That was a thing she always noticed in Kerry. The blistered, blotchy way she took the sun until her face looked like a big fat rasher. And yet Hughie was as brown as the lady blackbird. But he wouldn’t remember that. Not at all. He had more to be doing over the years. And besides, it was nothing. Nothing at all. It was absolutely nothing.

So it was just the way things worked out that he happened to drive her into the hospital, and then he met Gussie and then the rest, as they say, is history.

It was quare history for Hughie, having to recite it all to the guards. Poor Hughie. They made him go over everything. Every last detail. Fucken Sherlock Holmes. Is that who they thought they were?

But it was grand to think of Hughie showing such kindness to Gussie. And bringing him home. And lighting the fire in the Stanley range. And then he untied the dog and brought him into the kitchen. Such a picture. The pair of boys. Two men and a dog. Troopers.

Gussie opened the door and stood leaning against the lattice and he stared out at the dry October evening, listening to the rustle of the chestnut leaf. Hughie told her that. He looked up into the chestnut tree, he did. And says he to Gussie, ‘That will all fall be morning. All that canopy of leaf. If there’s frost.’

There were circles around the pale moon floating up in the dusk.

‘All that leaf will fall.’ That’s what Hughie said. Told Birdie every word of it in her own drawing room when it was all over.

And Gussie made himself useful with the sweeping brush. By jingo! she was proud to hear that. And tidying up some of the empty bottles that were accumulating under the dresser and under the sink, and under the sofa and in the presses and cupboards.