Brendan took off his shoes and put them side by side on the floor below the bed.

‘That’s a girl.’

He shook his trousers carefully and hung them over the end of the bed.

‘A great girl.’

‘Did you tell her?’

‘Tell her what?’

‘About the … you know …’

‘God, did I tell her? No way did I tell her.’

‘I just thought you might have.’

He got into bed and pulled the clothes tight up around his chin.

‘Good night.’

‘Good night.’

‘I might go back to England.’

‘Oh.’

‘Anyway, you keep your mouth shut.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good night.’

‘Good night.’

‘And thanks.’

She was waiting for him the next afternoon, puffing away as usual. Her hair hung down her back like one of the young ones. She waved when she saw him coming. That made him feel good.

‘How lovely.’

‘What’s lovely? To see you is lovely.’

He laughed.

‘Come and have tea. Toasted sticky buns.’

‘Yes.’

‘I love toasted sticky buns.’

They crossed the road and he kept his feet pacing along beside hers, stretching his stride to keep her rhythm.

‘Did you have a terrible time the other night?’

‘They made an awful mess.’

‘Your poor mother.’

‘The whole street really … a terrible mess.’

‘Were you scared?’

He thought of the gun.

‘Oh, no. Not really … well …’

She laughed.

‘I would have been. We must have another day at the sea. I enjoyed that, didn’t you?’

‘Or Grianan.’

‘Or Grianan. Somewhere.’

‘How’s Fred Burgess?’

She looked surprised at the question.

‘He’s all right.’

‘Does he write to you all the time?’

‘He’s not too bad.’

‘And do you write to him?’

‘Curiosity killed the cat.’

‘But, do you?’

‘I do.’

‘Every day?’

‘Don’t be silly. Only Victorian ladies with nothing else to do were able to write letters every day to their gentlemen friends.’

‘What would you say?’

‘Dear sir, when I got up this morning at eight-fifteen it was, as usual, raining. I went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth thirty-seven times …’

‘What sort of toothpaste do you use?’

‘He would know. I’d have told him that already.’

‘But you should do it. Then he would know everything about you.’

‘Imagine how bored you’d get reading a letter like that, on and on. As long as a day itself and then knowing that another one would be coming tomorrow.’

‘Your thoughts then. You could write him your thoughts.’

‘Dear Joe, my thoughts are as boring as buying toothpaste.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’re one of the nice people in the world.’

‘Do I bore you?’

‘Never.’

‘Does Brendan bore you?’

She threw the remains of her cigarette into the gutter.

‘What a strange thing to ask. No, I suppose. I hardly know him. He’s in a state of great confusion. That always appeals to me.’

‘Confusion?’