It was flattering, in many ways, to be able to wave that particular wand, and to have the ability taken for granted.

The poor kid, like Cloncraig, was due for a break.

The papers wouldn’t be likely to miss it.

It certainly wouldn’t do her any harm with her friends.

Already, people – strangers – were showing that they admired her for what she was doing.

There was the faint, unacknowledged pull of the child she had never borne herself.

She had always said, from the beginning, that “it would be nice to do something for Cloncraig”.

But she was nobody’s fool, and least of all her own; and she wasn’t deceiving herself, as she stood there, smiling at the leave-takers and well-wishers. She knew perfectly well that the motives were mixed, that the tapestry of her goodwill varied tremendously, some of it pure gold, some of it shoddy. But did it matter much, if in the end the kid came out the better for it?

Mrs Bannister got into the car and turned round to look at Esther Costello. The girl was pitiful as ever, of course; but she seemed comfortable, and at ease.

They were ready to go.

Father Haggerty, at her elbow, spoke another text: “God will bless you for this,” and Mrs Bannister, with a wave, drove off towards the New World.

Chapter Four

Their journey to America had, necessarily, a dog’s-leg track: from Cloncraig to Dublin, from Dublin to Liverpool, from Liverpool to New York. Mrs Bannister would have infinitely preferred to make the trip in one straight line, but there were too many things standing in the way. There were complications over the Cadillac, a possession so valuable, so tender, and so suspect that at times it seemed as though she would have to have it inoculated; and over her ticket, which made no allowance for a more direct route; and especially over Esther Costello, who (it seemed) could not become part of her personal baggage without surmounting a long series of official hurdles.

Mrs Bannister grudged continually the wasted time, because she was eager to get home – home to America, the only place which could handle this challenging affair. She also disliked the idea of spending any more time than was necessary in England. She had a particular feeling about England. She had married an Englishman.

The crossing from Dublin to Liverpool was comparatively simple. Mrs Bannister, by appeals of various kinds, managed to secure a stateroom to herself; the Irish Sea was dead calm, and Esther seemed to find nothing out of the ordinary in the few short walks she was called upon to make. Mrs Bannister fed her, with the help of a motherly stewardess (whose first remark had been: “Poor thing – born like it, I suppose”, and whose second was: “Syphilis, eh? I was reading about it only the other day …”); and together they saw that she was comfortable in her bunk. Only once had she shown surprise or fear, and that was when they first reached the quayside, and Esther suddenly lifted her head, and sniffed the air. The strange, pungent smell seemed to frighten her, and she clung to Mrs Bannister and tried to slow her steps, all the time cocking her nose upwards like an animal lifting its muzzle to a dark, unknown night.