‘I’ll make tea,’ I said, and descended the stairs softly as I always do at this early hour so as not to wake our daughter. Some time today Damian and I might again call in at Traynor’s; I might, in sickening humility, ask for mercy. I heard my own voice doing so, but the sound was false, wrong in all sorts of ways; I knew I wouldn’t say a thing. To ensure that our daughter had a roof over her head I would lend whatever was necessary. A bungalow would replace the fallen house at Doul.
The Irish Times was half pushed through the letter-box; I slipped it out. I brought the tray back to our bedroom, with gingersnap biscuits on a plate because we like them in the early morning. We read the paper. We didn’t say much else.
Later that morning Joanna hurried through cornflakes and a slice of toast. Her car started, reversed, then dashed away. Damian appeared and we sat outside in the September sunshine; Claire made fresh coffee. It was too late to hate him. It was too late to deny that we’d been grateful when our stay-at-home smugness had been enlivened by the tales of his adventures, or to ask him if he knew how life had turned out for the women who had loved him. Instead we conversed inconsequentially.
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Table of Contents
The Piano Tuner's Wives
A Friendship
Timothy's Birthday
Child's Play
A Bit of Business
After Rain
Widows
Gilbert's Mother
The Potato Dealer
Lost Ground
A Day
Marrying Damian
Table of Contents
The Piano Tuner's Wives
A Friendship
Timothy's Birthday
Child's Play
A Bit of Business
After Rain
Widows
Gilbert's Mother
The Potato Dealer
Lost Ground
A Day
Marrying Damian