of Dame Street for she felt that she too could write poetry if she could only
express herself like that poem that appealed to her so deeply that she had
copied out of the newspaper she found one evening round the potherbs. Art
thou real, my ideal? it was called by Louis J. Walsh, Magherafelt, and after
there was something about twilight, wilt thou ever? and ofttimes the beauty of
poetry, so sad in its transient loveliness, had misted her eyes with silent tears
that the years were slipping by for her, one by one, and but for that one
shortcoming she knew she need fear no competition and that was an accident
coming down Dalkey hill and she always tried to conceal it. But it must end
she felt. If she saw that magic lure in his eyes there would be no holding back
for her. Love laughs at locksmiths. She would make the great sacrifice. Her
every effort would be to share his thoughts. Dearer than the whole world would
she be to him and gild his days with happiness. There was the allimportant
question and she was dying to know was he a married man or a widower who
had lost his wife or some tragedy like the nobleman with the foreign name
from the land of song had to have her put into a madhouse, cruel only to be
kind. But even if — what then? Would it make a very great difference? From
everything in the least indelicate her finebred nature instinctively recoiled. She
loathed that sort of person, the fallen women off the accommodation walk beside
the Dodder that went with the soldiers and coarse men, with no respect for a
girl’s honour, degrading the sex and being taken up to the police station. No,
no : not that. They would be just good friends like a big brother and sister
without all that other in spite of the conventions of Society with a big ess.
Perhaps it was an old flame he was in mourning for from the days beyond
recall. She thought she understood. She would try to understand him because
men were so different. The old love was waiting, waiting with little white hands
stretched out, with blue appealing eyes. Heart of mine! She would follow her
dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the
only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Nothing else
mattered. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.
Canon O’Hanlon put the Blessed Sacrament back into the tabernacle and the choir sang Laudate Dominum omnes gentes and then he locked the tabernacle door because the benediction was over and Father Conroy handed him his hat to put on and crosscat Edy asked wasn’t she coming but Jacky Caffrey called out :
— O, look, Cissy!
And they all looked was it sheet lightning but Tommy saw it too over the trees beside the church, blue and then green and purple.
