She woke in half-light to the swell of his cock against her back. He bent her into a comma and fucked her with long, slow strokes. She was unsure if he was inside her or if she was dreaming, until he pulled out and rolled her on to her back. He arranged her body – hands over her head, legs barely parted – and pushed into her again. She was aware of pyjamas near her face then under her shoulder, as though they were working their way around the bed of their own accord, reminding her that another woman bought and laundered his clothes. In the beginning it had troubled her. Now it aroused her to think that in spite of his wife’s ministrations he did these things to her, and when the letter box opened and the Sunday paper dropped on the mat, he had to cover her mouth with his hand to spare the paperboy the sound of her yelps.

When they got up, he ran her a bath. She sat in the water and allowed him to wash her, soaping her neck and arms and breasts. Her make-up left a patina of glitter on the flannel.

A woman I lodged with in Dublin told me the country girls were called scaly backs.

Are you saying I’m bogging?

Filthy, he said.

He helped her out and dried her with a stiff towel. She felt abraded. Clean. As if she’d shed a skin.

20

20

They stood on the kerb, backdraught from a bus blowing briefly in their faces, and crossed the road in a lull in the traffic. As they passed the Ulster Defence Regiment barracks a voice said, Hello, startling them. Michael peered through the railings. There was a smell of cigar smoke, a man in uniform a foot or so away.

You should be in one of those Hamlet cigar ads, said Michael.

The Wimbledon one? the man said.

The Venus de Milo one. You have a tortured look about you.

The man smiled morosely, revealing a line of small teeth beneath his ginger moustache. Are youse off out?

We’re going to a party.

Well for some.

Cushla remembered Gerry at the checkpoint, saying he was going to a party. She turned and began walking.

Jim saw them from the dining room and opened the front door. His upper lip had tiny beads of sweat. Cushla wished him a happy birthday, kissing the cheek he offered. He asked Michael to help him move a table and she went through the hall to the kitchen. Cases of wine on the floor, corks removed then pushed back in the bottles again. China platters of raw vegetables, ramekins of creamy dips tucked among the carrot batons and cauliflower florets and wedges of cucumber. Toast piped with pâtés and spreads, curls of ham tied with chives.

Every time I see you you’re in an apron, said Cushla, hugging Penny.