Michael murmured an apology and Jim poured brandy into glasses engraved with a ring of fleur-de-lis. Chocolates were passed around, dark bitter ones with powdery centres from a box Cushla didn’t recognise.

Cushla bent to take the books from her basket, suddenly conscious that the others now knew she was more to Michael than an Irish teacher. She drew herself up slowly, hoping hostilities would be suspended by the time she was upright, but Victor and Michael were still eyeballing each other across the table. Start talking, she said.

Michael lit a cigarette and smoked it in silence. The others spoke haltingly, in sentences with atrocious syntax, accents so off she hardly recognised some words, but they went on. Aside from the obvious one, this was the real difference between her and them. They had the confidence to be foolish, to be wrong. She asked Michael a question in Irish and he looked surprised, as if he had forgotten where he was. He picked up her dictionary and she confiscated it. If you’re stuck I’ll translate, she said.

There are lots of words I’d like to know in Irish, said Victor.

Fire away, said Cushla.

Propaganda, said Victor, his eyes on Michael.

Bolscaireacht, answered Cushla.

Internment.

Imtheorannú.

Terrorist.

Sceimhlitheoir.

As she trawled the foclóir and her memory, she recalled a birthday party she’d attended when she was seven. Gina had dressed her in a fussy frock with a full skirt; the birthday girl and her friends were in pinafores and starched blouses. The gift she brought was ostentatious. She was introduced to Janets and Beverlys and Lindas who asked her to spell her name and was bewildered by the looks they exchanged on the fourth letter, unaware that Catholics said ‘haitch’ and Protestants said ‘aitch’. Later, she exclaimed ‘oh God’ when she won a round of pass the parcel, a mild response in the Lavery house that was met with hushes of ‘don’t swear, thingy’. That had hurt most; even after they’d made her spell her name they didn’t remember it. She went home in tears, a flaccid balloon in one hand and a slice of cake wrapped in tinfoil in the other. Gina had railed at her, I hope you didn’t let yourself down in front of that lot. She felt that way now. She shouldn’t be here.

Are you all right tonight, Victor? Michael said. His voice was soft, but his body was hard, as if he was about to lunge.

Fine.

Are you sure?

Yes.

Excellent. Now pass the brandy, like a good fellow.

They were a few feet from the barracks on the corner. That was fun, she said. Her face was hot from the brandy but her body creased in a shudder at the cold the dark had brought. Michael put his arm around her and rubbed her hip to warm her.

Victor was goading me. It had nothing to do with you.