Pity I have a voice like a crow, except in my head. (This is, of course, self-indulgent nonsense and won’t get into the book when I come to write it.)

Gioir!

Lar drove down the hill to Dalkey village and parked his car in the station car park. Pansy lay stretched on the back seat worn out after her run on the mountainside. She merely twitched an ear when he got out of the car. Lar strolled down the street wondering where he might find a chicken. He was able to cook a chicken; chickens, after all, almost cook themselves. He had learnt that from Caitlin.

There were restaurants to left and right. Maybe that’s what he should do, take her to a restaurant. He stopped to read a menu.

‘You are Laurence, aren’t you?’ It was Clara’s mother.

‘Hello. Good afternoon. Yes, it’s Laurence.’

‘Has Clara sent you to do the shopping?’

‘Well, I said I’d cook tonight, but now I wonder should I take her out. Perhaps you could … Mrs … Ah …’

She laughed.

‘Don’t tell me you don’t know her name. My name. Our name.’

He felt his face going red.

‘I …’

‘I don’t mean to tease you. It’s so like Clara to ignore the essentials, like names. She doesn’t think they matter. Barry. How do you do?’

She held her hand out towards him.

He shook it.

‘How do you do, Mrs Barry?’

‘I was thinking of going in here for a cup of coffee. They do quite good coffee. Real coffee. Have you time to join me? It would be so nice if you had.’

‘Thank you. I – thank you.’

He held the door open for her and then followed her in.

‘I’m supposed to be looking for a chicken.’

‘Lots of time for that later.’

They sat down. She wore gloves and he watched her pull them carefully off, finger by finger, and put them into her bag. ‘I always leave gloves behind if I don’t take care. It can become expensive.’

Her hands were white, the fingers long and well cared for, the nails well shaped and shining, not what he would have expected from the passionate jam-maker and bottler that Clara had described. Not a bit like his own mother. His own mother was admirable, he thought, lovable indeed, but always seemed to be a shadowy figure outside her own four walls, rather like a snail that has temporarily lost its shell and is afraid of being stepped on. That thought made him smile.

She was saying something.

‘Sorry, what did you say? I was …’

‘A million miles away. Coffee? Or would you rather have tea? They do a good cappuccino here. That’s quite hard to find. Unless, of course, you happen to be in Italy. That’s what I will have.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That would be great.’