iii

In the hallway waiting for Eilis, with the door on the latch, Jim realised that this might easily be a night when Nancy would call. If she did, he decided, he would let the phone ring out and pretend the next day he had not heard it.

It suddenly struck him that it would be easier somehow if Eilis did not come. He would know what to do then. He could go through the conversations they might have had, imagine what drink she would have asked for, dream of moving towards her in lamplight in the room upstairs.

She must have parked the car. He pictured her walking along Court Street. He listened, but there was no sound. If she did not come tonight, and since it was unlikely that they would see one another once her children came, then the car journey just now was a lost opportunity. He had liked being quiet with her, giving her a chance to concentrate on the road. But if it were to be their last time together, then he should have started a conversation.

And it occurred to him again that, after all the excitement, Nancy would surely want to see him. This could be a night when she would feel less cautious and decide to come to visit him without any warning. He shivered at the idea that Nancy and Eilis might, in fact, meet at his door, each wondering what the other was doing here.

When the door was pushed open, he had to stop himself from moving backwards in fright.

‘I hope I'm in the right house,' Eilis whispered.

She gently closed the door behind her.

‘I was worried you'd changed your mind,' Jim said.

He was safe now, he thought, as he accompanied her up the stairs.

In the living room, once he had got drinks for them, Jim sat opposite her by the fireplace. This was the room that she might have come to know well had things been different. But he should not mention that. He should not sound as though he wished to remonstrate with her.

He thanked her for coming. She nodded and sipped her drink. He asked about her children.

‘My daughter,' she said, ‘is studious and serious. I don't know where she got it from.'

‘Aren't you serious?'

‘I suppose I am. But she has better chances than I did.'

‘And your son?'

‘Larry? He's very excited about coming here.'

‘More than his sister?'

‘Rosella starts college in September so she has other things to look forward to.'

What Jim noticed was that Eilis had not mentioned her husband.

‘What's strange,' she said, ‘is how American they are. Not just their accents, but everything about them. I'm meeting them at the airport on Tuesday morning. I'll see it as soon as they appear.'

He looked at her and tried to listen as carefully as he could, aware that he might never get another chance to be with her like this. A few times he felt an urge to go to the kitchen on the pretext of needing more ice or another drink, so that he could be alone, so that he could have time to convince himself that she really had come here, that he really was hearing about her life.

Soon she would leave. He was sure she had not come here to spend the night with him. He kept hoping that she wouldn't go yet. It was clear that she wanted to talk. He would ask questions, but not too many. All the time he was watching out for any reference to her husband. She spoke about Lindenhurst, her job at the garage, her Armenian boss, but she said nothing about who was there when she went home in the evenings besides her children.

It was important not to ask. In one second, in one statement, his sense that her husband was absent could be deflated. Also, a question about him could appear too direct; Jim did not want to seem too interested. In a while, he thought, she would be bound to say something that would let him know. But she wasn't doing so yet. He had the impression that she was being careful.

If she were to indicate that she was happily married and would soon be returning to her husband, that would, it now occurred to him, make things simple. He would not have to make any decisions. He would feel a dull disappointment. But he was used to that. It was what he carried upstairs to this room most nights.

Since he and Nancy had agreed to marry, he had often returned to this chair once the pub had closed with thoughts of what she had said the last time they had met and dreams of when he would see her next. He slept easier knowing that she was not far away. What would Nancy say now if she came into the room?

When he did eventually go to the kitchen, he found it barely credible that Eilis Lacey was still in his sitting room, sipping a drink, describing the boarding house where she first stayed in Brooklyn.

Over the years, he had imagined many things, but not this. He wanted to return to the room and ask her why she had come – was it merely to tell him about her life since they had last seen each other?

‘Are you still living with your husband?' he asked suddenly when he was back in the armchair. He had not intended to speak and realised that he had interrupted her as she resumed telling him about her first job in America.

‘Tony?' she asked, as though he might have been referring to someone else.

He nodded and then examined her carefully as she hesitated. If she were living with her husband, she would surely say so immediately.

‘He drove me to the airport, so I suppose that says something.'

He wondered what she could possibly mean.

‘But I'm not sure what to say about it,' she added.

She was letting him know there was a problem at home. She had, he thought, said enough to make that plain.

‘Why did you never marry?' she asked.

He smiled at the idea that she too could ask questions that sounded abrupt. He decided to spare her an account of how he had felt when she had left. And if he did begin to tell her what his life was like, he would need to pretend that Nancy had not recently sat in the very armchair where Eilis was now. He would have to pretend that he was seeing no one at all.

On the other hand, Eilis might be the one person he could confide in. She was an outsider. He could tell her how he was engaged to Nancy. She would, most likely, keep the secret. He saw her as a most trustworthy person. She would congratulate him, say how pleased she was. And he would have no more reason for wondering about her husband. Perhaps she would call one more time before she left. But she would leave soon and all the excitement he felt in her presence would follow her.

He knew what he should do, but he wanted to keep this going, whatever it was. He did not reply to her question.

She agreed to have another drink. As he got more ice and mixers, he felt that he should say more. But he would still have to be careful.

‘Are there things that you regret?' he asked her when he returned.

She smiled and sipped her drink.

‘If I had been stronger, I would never have left here. I had no big dreams about leaving. I would have stayed. But then I wouldn't have had my children.'

When she looked at him sharply, he could not tell if she meant that she would have stayed with him.

‘And after that, do you regret other things?'

‘I would like to have studied more, but that was never going to be possible.'

What could she say that would satisfy him? He was, he saw, hoping for too much. She could hardly have said that she regretted not being with him.

When she asked him what he regretted most, he was at a loss. He regretted the years going by; he regretted that he had taken so long to find someone he could be happy with.

‘I'm sorry that I didn't follow you that time. As soon as I got the note from you that morning to say you were going back to Brooklyn, I should have gone to the train station to find you, or failing that I should have gone to the boat. I used to think about it, what might have happened had I followed you.'

‘Is there anything else?'

He sat back, closed his eyes and shook his head.

‘There is something else,' he said. ‘But I'm not sure I could tell you.'

‘I'll have to go soon,' she said. ‘If you don't tell me, that could be another regret.'

He shook his head again. ‘Some things are private.'

‘Is it about me?'

Maybe, he thought, she wanted him to say something about being in the room with her now and how that made him feel bad about all the years without her. But he wanted to tell her something that would make her respond.

‘Times have changed,' he said. ‘I see that in the pub. Things were different when we were young. But I've often regretted that we never spent a night together. I wish we'd done that.'

For a second, he thought she was going to stand up and leave. But instead, she laughed.

‘I wasn't expecting that.'

‘It is the truest thing I've said tonight.'

She smiled.

‘Have you ever felt that?' he asked.

She looked directly at him but did not reply.

‘I mean –' he began and stopped.

‘What were you going to say?' she asked.

‘You have to be in Dublin on Tuesday for the airport. If you went up on Monday I could meet you and we could stay in Dublin.'

‘Stay?'

‘In a hotel. There's a hotel I stop at sometimes on my way home. It's called the Montrose. It's in Stillorgan. You wouldn't know it. It's a modern hotel, sort of anonymous. We could meet there.'

She stood up and asked him where the bathroom was. He noticed how calm she seemed.

‘You have it all planned,' she said when she appeared again. ‘You really do.'

‘I just thought of it a second ago. I had nothing planned. But I could meet you there at two o'clock on Monday or a bit later if it suited you.'

‘You used to be so shy.'

‘I need to find some way of meeting you again.'

‘Yes, I can see that.'

‘Maybe I shouldn't have asked. But it's what I want. Honestly, it came into my head just now.'

‘Let me be clear. You would go to Dublin in your car. I would go in mine. We would meet in the hotel. Just one room. For the night. Is that right?'

‘Yes.'

‘And I would go to the airport in the morning to collect my children?'

‘That's right. But, listen, forget it if I have gone too far.'

‘Hold on, I'm thinking. What would my mother say?'

‘Is that what you're thinking?'

‘No.'

He was waiting for her to mention her husband.

‘So what are you thinking then?' he asked.

‘That I have exhausted your hospitality and should go home now.'

‘Maybe I went too far.'

‘Not at all. Just give me time to consider it.'

She stood up to go.

In the hall, he turned on both lights and was careful not to try to embrace her or kiss her.

‘I'll think about it,' she said. ‘I promise –'

‘You mean there's a chance?'

‘It would be great just now if you said nothing more.'

He unbolted the front door and glanced up and down the empty street.

‘I'll think about it,' she said again. ‘And I'll leave you a note to let you know. I'll do that tomorrow.'

‘Do you remember the name of the hotel? It's just beyond Stillorgan and before Donnybrook.'

‘I must go home now. And no more questions! Do you hear me?'

He put a finger to his lips.

‘Not a word,' he said and closed the door.