‘There’s a table over there,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring the Guinness when it’s pulled.’

‘Thanks.’

I decided to drink the whiskey neat. I picked up the glass and headed for a small table by the wall.

‘Get yourself a drink,’ I said to James. ‘These are both for me.’ I put the glass on the table and sat down. I had seldom drunk whiskey in my life and I hated Guinness.

James stood looking down at me.

‘Sit,’ I said, as one would to a dog. After a moment he sat.

I took a sip from the glass.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Shoot.’

For a moment I was quite enjoying myself, but I knew it wouldn’t last long. I took a larger sip. He didn’t seem to know the meaning of the word. The barman arrived with my Guinness at that moment and put the glass carefully on a mat that had Harp Lager written across it. He put my change down beside the glass.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Keep that. It’ll go towards your ticket home.’

‘I have my ticket home, but ta all the same.’ He put the coins in his pocket. ‘Can I get you anything, sir?’ He smiled towards James.

‘No.’

The barman wiggled his eyebrows at me again and left us. Probably, I thought, making more than I do teaching people about Elizabeth Bowen. Morose thought.

‘Clara …’

‘Let’s get something straight. Who is this Carla? Your sister? You never told me you had a sister. Your mother? Your mother’s called Carla. Isn’t it odd that if you just shove the letters round a bit you get Clara. Carla’s a bit more glamorous really. Clara’s rather old-fashioned, lumpy. Yes, it’s a lumpy name. Maybe I’ll change it to Carla.’ I took another drink and leant towards him. I spoke in a loud whisper. ‘Who the fuck is Carla?’

‘My wife.’ He held his hand up like a policeman. ‘Don’t say anything. Let me explain.’

‘Sure. Go ahead, explain.’

‘Carla is my wife.’

‘I’ve got that.’

‘We’ve been … well, not exactly separated, but not exactly together for some time now. We married too young, just out of college, and recently things began to fall apart. We’ve changed so much. We’re not the same people that we were when we married. It’s like strangers living in the same house.’

‘She doesn’t understand you,’ I suggested.

He looked cross. ‘Carla … I mean Clara … let’s not have jokes about this. It’s too serious. I love you. You have to believe me.’

‘What about your poor demented mummy?’

‘Unh?’

‘Tell me all about her. Tell me for instance the truth about her. Do you have a mummy?’

‘Of course I do. She’s—’

‘Crazed with grief.’

‘Well, no, she’s recovered. Although it took a long time. She was fragile for an age, just like I said. Really dependent and clinging, after my father died. But … she’s in Connecticut. She’s, ah, OK now. Fine. Yes. She did go through a bad patch though. Believe me. Look, darling, I’m truly sorry. I got caught in a sort of web … a maze of lies. I have been so upset about it all. So upset about the things I was saying to you.’