‘That’ll be nice.’

‘I hope so.’

‘I don’t think I’ll ever get married.’

‘You’re very pessimistic this evening. Of course you will.’

‘I don’t think I want to.’

‘You’ll probably change your mind when you grow up. Anyway, if you’re going to be a poet you’ll have all the girls in Ireland chasing you, and you won’t be able to resist the temptation.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Fred. A very boring name. I keep asking him to change it, but he won’t.’

‘Oh.’

‘Fred Burgess, so I will be Mrs Burgess. How do you like that?’

‘It’s OK.’

He tried to see in his head what someone called Fred Burgess would look like. He’d have to be fat, he thought, but he got no further than that. She had changed for him. She was no longer one of those solitary people like himself. Even her face seemed to be changed by what she had told him.

‘He’s a soldier.’ She said the words abruptly. She put the wooden spoon down on the edge of the pan and came over to Joe. She pulled nervously at his hair. ‘So he is. I’m telling you because you’re my pal. He’s in Germany and I’m lonely. You’d like him. Honestly, you would. His mother came from Cork and … oh … Joe …’ He looked up at her and was suddenly aware of how unhappy she was. He took her hand and rubbed at the finger that wore the ring. He couldn’t think of anything to say. She put the other hand up suddenly to her face, so that he shouldn’t see her crying eyes.

‘I shouldn’t have come here. I see that now … I thought … I didn’t understand before I came … no one can understand … I thought it would be a good thing to do. But I feel so awful … God …’

She rubbed at the tears with her thumb and a smile pulled at one corner of her mouth.

‘It’s no wonder I smoke so much.’

‘It’s OK.’ said Joe. ‘It’s honestly OK.’

‘Why have I bothered you?’

‘The onions are burning.’

She began to laugh through her tears. Another monkey’s wedding.

‘Oh, hell. I am the champion messer of the world.’

She scrabbled at the onions with the spoon.

‘I like them burnt,’ said Joe helpfully.

‘It’s just as well.’

She scooped them on to a plate and put them into the tiny oven.

‘I wasn’t cut out to be a good cook. I don’t quite know what I was cut out to be. I get carried away by my own emotions. I am purposeless.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I suppose I don’t know what I’m at … and mind. Lots of people don’t know and they don’t mind. I mind. I’d like to know where … be sure of something. Even how to cook onions.’

‘You’re going to get married.’

She sighed.

‘I suppose so. That’s not purpose though. It’s sort of routine really. The birth, marriage, death routine.’