“Left to himself,” Tom tells Ellen, “he will buy tinned potatoes.”

I let them both decry this awful habit. A terrible waste of money (Tom). Not even nice potatoes, always very small (Ellen). Can’t he manage to peel a potato? (Tom). Horrid texture, and quite tasteless (Ellen). They continue in this vein for quite some time.

Watching and listening to them I feel a sudden, intense happiness.

—

“I could take the rest to Mrs. Moore,” I say, when we’ve finished both the main course and the apple turnovers (with fresh custard, of course) that Tom has made. “She won’t eat, or can’t bring herself to, and this is so tasty. Do you know Bridie Moore, Ellen?”

I am relaxed. We all are. A bare half inch of wine remains in the bottle.

“I certainly do know Bridie, and I feel guilty about not visiting her.” She sighs. “She used to make soda bread for the Women’s Institute. I like her a great deal. She’s always taken the time to listen to people properly.”

“I went to see her this afternoon. She’s got some kind of message for me, something I must know. Philip can’t imagine what it might be, and neither can Terry Shaw.” I shrug helplessly. “Bridget was very inventive, with noises and gestures and so on, but I was too much of a duffer to work it out.”

“You could show us,” says Tom, bringing coffee pot and cups to the table.

“Show you?”

“What she did. The movements. And the sounds.”

“That’s a good idea.” I reflect for a moment. “The first part went like this. She was trying to describe a particular person.” I look at Tom, and then point at a space beside him before bringing my hand to my chest. He looks in the direction I’m pointing.

“Someone far away?” he queries.

I pour the coffee. “No, I think it was closer than that.”

“Someone beside you,” Ellen says.

“Connected in some way to his chest,” says Tom to Ellen.

“His heart,” says Ellen to Tom.

“Before that, when I asked her if the person was in Upton, she said yes and no at the same time. It was obvious I didn’t understand at all, so she started again.” I pass the milk jug and sugar bowl. “Okay. Now what’s this?”

I draw a square on the table.

“A square,” they both say.

“And this?” I make the final gesture, putting my fingertips to my lips and then puffing them away so that my hand flies down onto the table.

Ellen sips her coffee, pondering. Tom says, “Do it again.”

I repeat the movement.

“Perhaps those are words,” Ellen says, “falling from her mouth. Perhaps she’s saying, I can’t talk.”

“A smoker,” suggests Tom. “Trying to give up. Taking one puff and throwing it away. There’s the cigarette packet on the table.”

“Where?”