Lila brought them in her suitcase when she came home for reading week, along with the taramasalata.

You have a daughter? said Cushla.

Penny laid a bowl of crisp lettuce dressed with lemon juice and oil on the table and a basket of crusty bread, torn rather than cut. We have two. Lila’s at Cambridge and Alice is at Heriot-Watt, she said, as though Cushla should know where that was.

Jane told them about a contract from Brazil she was working on for an engineering company.

Jane’s a Portuguese translator, said Michael.

Do you get a lot of work? said Cushla.

It’s as lucrative as one might imagine, said Victor. Jane laid down her knife and fork. For the rest of the meal she spoke when she was spoken to, which wasn’t often.

Afterwards there were Irish coffees and roughly cut, crumbly fudge. Sláinte, said Jim. That accent again.

Michael took his jacket off. She hadn’t seen him in his shirtsleeves before and couldn’t help staring at his shoulders, the part of a man’s body she always noticed first.

Right, said Jim. Let’s do this. They were all looking at Cushla.

She took the books from her basket and laid them on the table. Talk amongst yourselves, she said, and we’ll see where you are.

Victor lit another cigar. Tell us about the Irish word for no, Cushla.

She knew where this was going. There is no word in Irish for no.

Ní hea, she said.

That doesn’t mean no, though, does it?

It can mean no.

It means ‘it isn’t’. It’s a tad slippery, don’t you think?

They were watching her, waiting for her to answer. What do you mean by slippery? she said.

Evasive. Non-committal. If someone offers you a drink, how do you say no?

Níor mhaith. I don’t want.

That sounds like a proclamation.

The word had a particular resonance for nationalists, but she could not tell if he was goading her. All evening there had been something arch in the way he spoke to her, but he hadn’t been much better with the others. Perhaps some word association of her own was making her see a slur where there wasn’t one. Or maybe he was wondering what Michael was at, bringing her along.

She asked them simple questions in Irish; only Michael seemed to have more than a few phrases. He leaned over her book sometimes to see how a word was spelled, his face an inch from hers. So close it was torture.

It was almost eleven when they left. Jim saw them out. When Michael and Cushla were in the car, he called something over his shoulder and slipped back inside, shutting the door abruptly. Cushla pictured him bursting into the kitchen to the others, and was distraught at what was being said in her absence. Beside her, Michael was oblivious.

At the end of the road, something glinted in the fence around the barracks. Gunmetal, or maybe she was imagining it. Instead of driving back the way they had come, he turned right then left into a cul-de-sac lined either side by a long terrace of tall, Edwardian houses, parking in front of the last but one.