‘Have you many of them?’

‘Oodles of brains.’

‘I meant bad habits.’

She laughed.

‘More oodles.’

What happened to them? Joe only asked the question inside his head. What happened to nice people? He had a picture of a nice small man polishing glasses, his head only just appearing over the top of a high bar counter. It was one of those slightly comical bald heads that looked as if an expensive yellow duster were used on it morning and evening. Ragged cuffs on his shirt because he had no money to buy new ones and his wife was too busy teaching to mend his old ones. She was talking. The vibrations of her voice reached into his mind, but not the words. Soon the twiggy branches of the hedges would start to burst with green, he would like to come again then. Sharp green. Soft unfolding leaves, acid colour that you could almost taste in your mouth when you thought about it. The vibrations became words. He looked towards her. Her cheeks were pink with the wind in her face and her hair blew straight out behind her like a cracking flag.

‘She was always saying to him, there’s other people on the road, Jack, besides yourself, and he would laugh and say he’d few pleasures in life and that was one of them and not to be nagging like other men’s wives did and if she didn’t like it she could get out and walk and she’d laugh and say, don’t say I didn’t warn you, and I suppose that was how it happened.’

She paused for a moment and then gave one of her little laughs. ‘He was what the Americans would call a speed merchant.’

‘Oh.’

‘They never got old anyway. There’s something to be said for that. He had gorgeous teeth.’

‘What happened to the pub?’

‘My cousin has it. He’d been working in England for ages. He always knew he’d come into it some day. He was married. They came back.’

They walked in silence for a moment.

‘They put their savings into the place. Did it up. Carpets and that sort of thing. A juke box. Changed the name from Dohertys to The Hill Top Lounge. Snacks, car park and music on Saturday night. People come in cars. There’s a very beautiful view!

‘Wales?’

She shook her head.

‘No. Not Wales. I don’t go back.’

She stopped walking and put a cigarette into her mouth. Carefully holding the match box in her sheltering hand, she struck a match and bent her head down to catch the flame.

‘My memories are so … I don’t know … clean … clear … that’s not quite right … oh dear me, Joe, I’m as stupid as hell.’ She dropped the dead match on the ground and moved on up the road. Her deprecating laugh was blown back to him by the wind. He hurried his steps to keep up with her. His cheeks and nose were feeling wind-stung.