sold years ago. He wondered briefly how they were.
If he’d sold Dulough, they could have sent Kate and Philip to a very good school, and if they had been careful, if he had invested wisely, he may not have had to work. But he had turned the government down. He hadn’t told Marianne. Murphy thought he was crazy; he was incredulous when John handed back the piece of paper with the number on it, a very big number, money that reflected this new Ireland, a figure the likes of which John would never see again. At the time, he had been confident that Marianne would not have wanted him to take it, but now he wasn’t so sure. It was too late anyway. The decision was made. They still owned Dulough and, in a city so full of immigrants, he was grateful that he’d held on to a house that told him who he was, rooting him firmly in his own country.
He rose up off the bench. The newsagent at the top of Grafton Street was pulling up its shutters. A girl set a sign outside: LOTTO JACKPOT! John had never played, but he’d seen many a local in Donegal scratching away at those little cards. He didn’t even know how much it cost to buy a ticket. Grasping about for the notes in his pocket, he asked, “How does it work?”
The sales assistant explained it to him sympathetically, as if he were the foreigner and not her. He would have to choose a set of numbers and watch a television program. He left the counter to consider; the children’s birthdays were an obvious choice, as was the year Dulough was built. He returned to the counter and received his ticket. On the walk back to the hotel he allowed himself to imagine what five million pounds could do for them; he could get the estate back and they’d never have to worry about money again. He closed his fingers around the ticket, securing it tightly at the bottom of his pocket.
When he got back to the hotel, the room was dark; it smelled unaired, mustily of sleep. He took off his shoes and slipped into bed beside Marianne, wrapping his arms around her waist. It reminded him of college. When he’d had early lectures, he would come back to find her sleeping in exactly this position, her knees pulled up to her chest, her hands gripping the covers tightly under her chin. She loved to sleep; even when they’d had the children it was he who had got out of bed more often than not, to bring them to her for feeding.
She clasped his hands within her own and pulled him in behind her. His knees locked with hers. It was too hot under the covers and he began to sweat. She drifted off again, but when she woke forty-five minutes later, she allowed him to touch her for the first time in months, to run his hands up her legs, to lift her long nightdress, to turn her towards him.
Philip
Philip had to abandon his hut for nearly a fortnight after his mother caught him coming up from the beach. He stayed mostly inside, arranging and rearranging his new room. The toys he’d played with before the move—his soldiers, his Technic Lego—seemed artificial now and required too much imagination compared to the real world of hut building. He wondered how he’d ever thought up battles and expeditions; he longed to go back out to the island.
Finally, he found a day when no one was around. He had read the Irish Times for the tides and watched from the top of the cliff as the sea was sucked away. He had two planks of wood with him, taken from Francis’s shed, each with a layer of creosote to protect it from the rain. There was an urgency to get the hut finished now; he wouldn’t be able to bring these things out once the visitors arrived.
Philip laid the planks across the roof; they were too long and stuck out the sides. He crawled in. Barely any light came through the walls, he’d done a good job of filling the gaps between the big rocks with smaller stones and moss. He hadn’t managed to find a piece of carpet, so he had covered the floor with leaves. Adding his coat to the pile, he lay down with his head
If he’d sold Dulough, they could have sent Kate and Philip to a very good school, and if they had been careful, if he had invested wisely, he may not have had to work. But he had turned the government down. He hadn’t told Marianne. Murphy thought he was crazy; he was incredulous when John handed back the piece of paper with the number on it, a very big number, money that reflected this new Ireland, a figure the likes of which John would never see again. At the time, he had been confident that Marianne would not have wanted him to take it, but now he wasn’t so sure. It was too late anyway. The decision was made. They still owned Dulough and, in a city so full of immigrants, he was grateful that he’d held on to a house that told him who he was, rooting him firmly in his own country.
He rose up off the bench. The newsagent at the top of Grafton Street was pulling up its shutters. A girl set a sign outside: LOTTO JACKPOT! John had never played, but he’d seen many a local in Donegal scratching away at those little cards. He didn’t even know how much it cost to buy a ticket. Grasping about for the notes in his pocket, he asked, “How does it work?”
The sales assistant explained it to him sympathetically, as if he were the foreigner and not her. He would have to choose a set of numbers and watch a television program. He left the counter to consider; the children’s birthdays were an obvious choice, as was the year Dulough was built. He returned to the counter and received his ticket. On the walk back to the hotel he allowed himself to imagine what five million pounds could do for them; he could get the estate back and they’d never have to worry about money again. He closed his fingers around the ticket, securing it tightly at the bottom of his pocket.
When he got back to the hotel, the room was dark; it smelled unaired, mustily of sleep. He took off his shoes and slipped into bed beside Marianne, wrapping his arms around her waist. It reminded him of college. When he’d had early lectures, he would come back to find her sleeping in exactly this position, her knees pulled up to her chest, her hands gripping the covers tightly under her chin. She loved to sleep; even when they’d had the children it was he who had got out of bed more often than not, to bring them to her for feeding.
She clasped his hands within her own and pulled him in behind her. His knees locked with hers. It was too hot under the covers and he began to sweat. She drifted off again, but when she woke forty-five minutes later, she allowed him to touch her for the first time in months, to run his hands up her legs, to lift her long nightdress, to turn her towards him.
Philip
Philip had to abandon his hut for nearly a fortnight after his mother caught him coming up from the beach. He stayed mostly inside, arranging and rearranging his new room. The toys he’d played with before the move—his soldiers, his Technic Lego—seemed artificial now and required too much imagination compared to the real world of hut building. He wondered how he’d ever thought up battles and expeditions; he longed to go back out to the island.
Finally, he found a day when no one was around. He had read the Irish Times for the tides and watched from the top of the cliff as the sea was sucked away. He had two planks of wood with him, taken from Francis’s shed, each with a layer of creosote to protect it from the rain. There was an urgency to get the hut finished now; he wouldn’t be able to bring these things out once the visitors arrived.
Philip laid the planks across the roof; they were too long and stuck out the sides. He crawled in. Barely any light came through the walls, he’d done a good job of filling the gaps between the big rocks with smaller stones and moss. He hadn’t managed to find a piece of carpet, so he had covered the floor with leaves. Adding his coat to the pile, he lay down with his head
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