The bar was quiet, empty tables on either side of her. A group of four were in a far corner, playing cards, serious about it. Americans, or perhaps Canadians. Then a cheery voice sounded, coming from a man appearing from a room to the side of the bar.

‘Here you are, folks. Toasted sandwiches for four. More pints on the way.’

She’d studied the newspaper photos closely. There was no mistaking him. He was taller than her. He had dark curly hair. A friendly face. He was stockily built, wearing a checked shirt, jeans.

She stayed near the doorway as he chatted to the foursome, laughed at a remark, something about the weather, about Irish people always being happy to talk about it, their national pastime. He noticed her in the doorway and called over a cheery greeting. Then he was behind the bar, loading four dark creamy pints of Guinness onto a tray, back to the group, carefully placing a glass in front of each with sure practised movements. He went behind the bar again, then disappeared, to a kitchen, she assumed.

She couldn’t stand there all day. She moved to the bar. Felt the beating of her heart. Clenched her hands to stop them trembling. She wanted to be able to press pause, or to ask him to stand still, let her stare at him, this man in his fifties. To try to imagine him as her mother would have known him, a man in his early twenties. She wanted to search for a sign of that accident he’d had, a scar, a mark. Olivia and Maxie hadn’t remembered all the details. Just that he’d been knocked out in a fight, been in a coma for weeks before waking, seemingly without any repercussions. A lucky man.

‘Now, what can I get you?’ He was back, standing in front of her.

Did she introduce herself now? Or order a drink first? Wait until the four people had gone? She didn’t know what she wanted to do, how to do this. Even after imagining it for so many years.

He was waiting.

‘A sparkling water, please.’

‘Ice and lemon?’

‘Yes. Yes please.’

He was back with it in moments. She took the coward’s way out again. She took her drink to a table in the corner, under some posters advertising a pub quiz taking place that evening, a forthcoming GAA fundraiser. Other flyers advertised local services, babysitting, interior design. He came over and she thought he was going to talk to her. Instead, he cleared the table behind her. Glasses, two plates. It must have been busy here at lunchtime. She’d chosen the time well.

The other four people were barely making a start on their pints, more interested in their card game.

He came past again. Now. Do it, now.

‘Excuse me.’ Louder. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Sir? She felt a wave of embarrassment. She was doing it wrong.

‘Yes?’