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clinked together as she tipped back her glass. Jock continued.

      ‘Are you surprised to see me?’

      She did not look in the least surprised, but she said, ‘Mm.’

      Jock said, ‘You’re looking very well.’

      ‘I just got up.’

      ‘You’re bloody idle.’

      She did not think so. ‘I did two shows yesterday.’

      Jock stared at her. ‘What show’s this?’

      ‘My Sister Eileen.’

      ‘You’ve done that before, haven’t you?’

      ‘Mm. It’s a repertory company.’

      ‘So they say. And you’re Eileen?’

      ‘No. I’m the other one. Ruth.’

      Jock took a gulp of whisky. He watched her face closely all the time he talked, and he was rather enjoying himself. He was surprising himself, and it seemed a very long time since he had seen her.

      ‘Are you not sore you’re not Eileen?’

      ‘I’m too old for Eileen.’

      ‘How old is Eileen?’

      ‘She’s twenty: or something like that.’

      Jock gave a grin: then he chuckled and she looked quite angry.

      ‘I said I was too old for Eileen.’

      ‘But you said you weren’t sore.’

      ‘I’m not, for heaven’s sake. Jock Sinclair, you haven’t changed much … Ruth’s a better part. If you’d seen the play you’d understand. You ought to come and see it.’

      ‘Aye, maybe.’ Jock poured himself out another drink, and he sniffed, because he had forgotten his handkerchief. ‘Tell me, Mary. In Belfast, on a Sunday afternoon, do ladies often sit drinking whisky?’

      ‘What the hell are you up to?’

      ‘I asked you a civil question. Do they, now?’

      ‘Sometimes, if it’s cold and wet, I suppose.’

      ‘It’s always wet in Belfast, lassie.’

      ‘This is just as bad. This is the end of the world.’

      ‘It’s not that. It’s a very fine city.’

      ‘Och, but the people …’

      Jock watched her lips when she replied. Now he jerked his head to one side.

      ‘Mary; I’ll go next door and sleep if you come too. It’ll save you whisky. Eh?’

      She stabbed her cigarette out firmly.

      ‘I don’t do it that way. I’m not something in a fair.’

      ‘You’re just contrary. You know fine you’d …’

      ‘Take a whisky with you instead.’

      ‘Just for old times’ sake.’

      ‘To hell with old times’ sake. I don’t mind you calling, Jock Sinclair. But you’re going to behave yourself, or it’s home you go. For heaven’s sake, Jock.’ She looked at him kindly.

      ‘Aye,’ Jock said, leaning back again, with a sigh. ‘Maybe.’ He pushed his tumbler forward again and she poured more whisky into it, and lit another cigarette. When she inhaled the first breath of a cigarette she would tip her head back and exhale it out of nose and mouth together. Jock liked the way she smoked.

      ‘I hear you’ve got a new colonel up the road,’ she said.

      ‘Yes, yes.’

      She smiled again. ‘Are you sore about it?’ and he looked at her, then he smiled too. ‘I’ll put you over my knee, and not just to spank you.’

      Mary was always telling Jock he was coarse. She clicked her teeth and put her shoe back on her foot. Jock looked at the foot and the stocking, then he turned his eyes to hers again.

      ‘Who’s been giving you your news?’

      She stood up and walked across the room to fetch an ashtray.

      ‘Och, it’s common knowledge. They say you had your knuckles rapped last night.’

      Jock’s colour rose at that. ‘Aye, well they’re bloody wrong. That’s what they are.’

      ‘Whatever you say.’

      ‘I don’t know who the hell’s been telling you this but you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. It was me that said that, about rapping over the knuckles, or near enough. Who’s been speaking to you, eh?’

      ‘A friend.’

      ‘Aye, well he’s a liar too. The wee man got badly fussed and I said it; I said it kind of ironic-like – och, you wouldn’t understand it.’

      ‘Why shouldn’t I understand?’

      ‘Because you’re bloody ignorant.’

      ‘Listen to you.’

      ‘Well what does ironic mean then, eh? D’you know?’

      She did not reply to him, and after a moment he went on in a quieter voice.

      ‘He lost his head altogether. That’s what he did. He gets in an awful rage, you know; Barrow does. Aye, and he’s to see me in the morning.’ Jock paused again, but it was obvious that he wanted to say more on the subject. Mary could tell that from the way he washed the whisky round and round his tumbler, and watched it as it whirled. Mary had listened to a good many men’s stories before this: and for a while Jock had been in the habit of telling her everything, when he went round for his evening chat.

      He ran his tongue over his lips, which were cracked by the weather and all the cigarettes he had been smoking lately.

      ‘He was cool enough this morning. I went to see him this morning. He’s usually very cool you see. He’s springy enough, aye, but he keeps well away from you. Nobody gets very near the Barrow Boy. That’s one of the rules.’

      Mary nodded sympathetically and she pulled her feet up on the sofa again so her shoe just hung on her toe. She smoked cigarettes all the time.

      ‘On parade’s on parade. But the way I dance is nothing to do with him.’

      ‘I’ve never seen him.’

      ‘Och, he’s – he’s a spry wee man. In the usual run I mean, but he’s got a temper. He’s always been famous for that. His wife couldn’t cope with it, no. And it’s worse ’an it used to be. But I tell you this; it’ll no be of any use to him by the time I’ve finished tomorrow … I’ve got friends in the War Office, just the same as him; aye, but that’s not the point.’

      Jock was speaking very fast now, and he spoke right into Mary’s face. He nodded and tossed his head to emphasise his independence. ‘I’ll tell you. I’ve fallen over myself to be fair. I don’t know who’s been speaking to you, but they’ll tell you: everybody’ll tell you I’ve been very reasonable. I’ve no questioned his command.’ He gave a violent shake of his head. ‘I haven’t. But I could have, Mary. I’m no bragging when I say that. Anyone’ll tell you who’d be in command of the Battalion if we went into battle tomorrow. Aye. And he knows that bloody well. “Oh yes, Sinclair,” he said, “tomorrow, I think. Not a good idea today: not on a Sunday,” and away he blew. He’s in a funk, Mary. He’s windy. He is. And, by God, I’ll let him know that the morn. He’s bloody good reason to be in a funk. I’m telling you.’

      Jock was sweating now and he wiped his brow with his sleeve. He gave a sigh and asked politely:

      ‘Have you got a hanky?’

      ‘Only

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