I thought of telephoning Father O’Flynn, but what could I say? That I wished I was dead? He might reply that, doubtless, I soon would be, adding that my desire was sinful. That I wished I’d never lived? Even I could see that that was pointless. And it was a lie, for I had once taken great joy in life. That I must prevent my son’s marriage? He would think I was a jealous, possessive old woman, for he was not the cleverest of men, our good parish priest.

I sat down, for I knew that Lili would soon be round. She could not tolerate the atmosphere in Monica’s house and when she couldn’t be bothered to go to town she came to me to smoke and drink my whisky. Have I said that before?

She came, sure enough: light-footed with a dancer’s step, her hair like filaments of light and her skirts floating.

‘I brought my homework,’ she said, and sat at the kitchen table making flowers.

‘What do you think would happen,’ I asked, ‘if I told Syl about Margaret?’

‘You mean about Derek,’ corrected Lili, her fingers busy with a curl of scarlet paper. ‘I think he’d hate her, and he’d marry her and hate her more and more, and when she wept at his unkindness he would say, "Don’t blame me for your unhappiness, my dear. It’s your father who has done this to you. You are incurably deformed in spirit, a filthy and unnatural creature, blighted beyond redemption. There is nothing I can do to help you. Lie down and…"’

‘Syl doesn’t talk like that,’ I said. My voice was harsh.

She put her head on one side. ‘Doesn’t he?’ she said.

I knew that part of what she said was true. The revelation would not stop Syl from marrying Margaret. He would say that the outrage upon her made it more compelling that he should marry her, and look after and protect her. Everything she said was true.

‘Margaret would hate him,’ I said. ‘She would hate him for knowing that about her.’

‘But then,’ said Lili, ‘on the other hand, he might never tell her what he knew. She might never know. She might never know why he hated her.’

‘Are you sure,’ I said, ‘...are you sure she doesn’t remember?’

‘I’m sure,’ said Lili. ‘Couple of weeks ago—do you remember—we had tea with you and on the way home she wanted to talk. She wanted to confess something. Now you know me. I cannot keep my mouth shut. If I keep it shut sober, I open it drunk. So I told her not to tell me. She trusts me, you see, poor little bitch. Now I think I know what she wanted to tell me—I gathered a lot from Marie Claire between the lines—and if she was prepared to tell me that, it wouldn’t take much to make her tell me anything. No—she doesn’t remember.’

‘Why wouldn’t you listen to her?’ I asked.