What were you going to tell me about those three in the bar? she asked Gerry.

The man’s a historian, lectures in the university. She’s an artist.

What about your man Michael?

He’s a barrister. He made that documentary about the 1798 rebellion that caused ructions. He’s been outspoken against internment, defended a few of the civil rights crowd when nobody else would touch them. He’s all right, he said.

‘All right’ meant he was not a bigot.

The house lights fell and the stage lights rose. Two actors played the main character, showing his public and private selves as he prepared to leave for America. Gar Private was played by a big man with a north Antrim accent. There was terrible anguish in his lines, in his delivery. Sometimes her eyes wandered to where Michael Agnew was sitting in the third row from the front. His face was tilted slightly to the left. There were people all around him, but he looked quite alone.

At the interval, they went downstairs. There was a long table of drinks in the foyer with receipts tucked beneath them. Gerry hadn’t ordered in advance and left her again for the bar. She went to the ledge where they had stood earlier, both their coats clutched against herself, Gerry’s jacket with its rusty sheen facing outwards, making her arms sweat. She had put on a dress cut in a low V at the front; black jersey printed with beige-stalked lilies, their blossoms lime-white. It had begun to cling and as she lifted the fabric from her chest she was aware of someone standing in front of her. It was Michael, holding two whiskies. All the times she had tried to construct his face, she had given him dark brown eyes but could see now that they were lighter than that. Hazel, flecked with pieces of gold.

He offered her one of the glasses. I ended up with two by way of a happy misunderstanding, he said. Cushla hated whiskey. She took it from him so he’d stay. He asked her if she was enjoying the play.

I didn’t think the two-actor thing would work, but I love Gar Private. It’s sad, but, she said. There was merriment in his eyes as he watched her speak. She wondered if he found her silly, but then he nodded slowly, as if she had given the correct answer.

He had seen the original production in the Abbey in the sixties, he said, and asked her what else she liked about it.

I like how he calls the place Ballybeg. Small town.

Do you speak Irish? he said. She liked that he didn’t call it Gaelic.

I did it for my A levels. And in teacher-training college. There’s not much use for it here.

You have an Irish name, he said.

It’s not a proper Irish name. It’s one of those made-up ones, like Colleen.

What does it mean?

It’s from an endearment. A chuisle mo chroí: the pulse of my heart. My da wouldn’t have known that. He got it from the John McCormack song.