‘I wouldn’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,’ I said.

‘Can you hang there for just a moment while I make a call?’ Without waiting for an answer he crossed the hall to the porter’s office and went in.

I could go now, I thought. Walk out the door and hop into a cab. On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind a posh Italian meal. He might be fun. K’van. I wonder how long it will be before he asks me my name. Five minutes? An hour? Never? Melanzane al forno. I could eat a lot of that. If I walk out the door, what do I have in the fridge? Some yogurt and the remains of yesterday’s pizza. I don’t have a choice really, do I? K’van wins, hands down.

The doorbell rings, ploughing into my head, and the knocker is also being rat-tatted. That is impatience verging on bad manners. How can you write a novel if people keep interrupting you? Is it the man from Porlock? Oh haha!

Or Mother?

Better by far the man from Porlock.

After sitting slouched as I do at my table, glaring and staring into the screen, my back aches and things go crackle inside when I stand up. But I will not be deflected by anyone. I will write this book and then, having vented my spleen – not the right reason, I do know that, for writing a book – I will move on. I will write another one and then another. I will do my voyaging in my head. Words and ideas will be my baggage, my eyes will turn for a while inwards.

‘Hello.’

Lar is on the doorstep, complete with dog and baggage. A slightly anxious smile on his face. Not the man from Porlock.

‘Where did you say you were from?’

I beckon him in as I speak.

I pat Pansy on the head as she passes.

The telephone rings. I am having a busy afternoon.

‘Near Ballycastle.’

I pick up the phone and point along the passage to the short flight of stairs to the spare bedroom.

‘Hello?’ This is Mother.

‘Just up the stairs,’ I say. ‘It’s the only room. Yes, Mother?’

‘Are you busy, dear?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s good. I thought you might be out getting wet in the rain.’

‘I did that this morning.’

‘Tttt.’

I wait to hear what she has to say.

‘I hope you’re not doing anything too energetic.’

‘Writing a novel.’

‘I never know when you’re telling me the truth.’

‘Today I am writing a novel, maybe I won’t be tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow all inspiration will have dried up.’

‘All you have to do is concentrate, dear.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Seven-thirty, then.’

‘May I bring a friend? Have you enough food?’ She always has enough food to feed an army.

‘I decided to ask Ivan, but he’s gone to Oughterard.’

I always forget that our doctor’s name is Ivan. It really doesn’t suit him.

‘I had forgotten that he was going away. He left at eleven-fifteen, his housekeeper said. She made him sandwiches and a flask of coffee. Chicken and cheese, brown bread.’ She starts to laugh. ‘She told me all that on the telephone. Two bananas and a slice of chocolate cake. He will pull down a quiet lane and eat all that and be in Oughterard by teatime.’