stung. "Do you know it would serve her right to get stuck with Charlie? He's thick as two short planks, so he is."
Barry wished the young woman would shut up. She had a voice that would cut tin.
The other chuckled. Her laugh was contralto, deep and resonant. Barry glanced at her. She had black hair with a sheen like a healthy animal's pelt. Her face was strong, with a firm chin and full lips that bore the merest hint of pale pink lipstick. Slavic cheekbones. Dark eyes with an upward tilt. They had a deep, unfathomable glow, like the warmth in well-polished mahogany. Her skin was smooth and tanned, and a small dimple showed in her left cheek as she laughed. But for that dimple, she could have been Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady.
Her laughter died, and Barry found himself wishing that she would laugh again. He didn't want her to see him staring, so he looked away, but soon he found his gaze drawn back. She was looking out the window. He saw her in profile. She wore an unbuttoned white gabardine raincoat.
"Anyway, Patricia," her friend rattled on, "I says to Eileen, says I. . ."
Would she never stop prattling? He glanced down and then stole another look. Patricia, that was her name; Patricia turned, caught him staring, and held his gaze. His hand flew to his head, and he smoothed the damn tuft. "Excuse me," he said, knowing that he was blushing. "I'm awfully sorry. . . ."
She laughed again, warm and throaty. "A cat can look at a king . . . if it doesn't think the king's a mouse."
"I'm sorry."
The train slowed. He saw the sign for Belfast Station glide past the window. The train stopped. They left. Barry closed his eyes and sat back against the cushions. Why in hell had he not had the courage to find out more about Patricia? In the movies she would have left something on the train, something he could use as an excuse to run after her. No such luck. Ships that pass, he thought, and yet, and yet. . .
He left the compartment not expecting to see any sign of Patricia and her chatty friend, but there they were up ahead, Patricia leaning on the noisy one's arm and limping slowly. Must have hurt herself playing hockey, he thought. She certainly looked the athletic type. He took a deep breath, smoothed his hair, and lengthened his stride until he drew level.
"Excuse me," he said, "excuse me."
Patricia stopped and faced him.
"Come away on out of that, Patricia." The friend tugged at Patricia's sleeve and scowled at Barry.
Words tumbled out. "Look. My name's Barry Laverty. I want. . . that is . . . I'd like--"
"Away off and chase yourself." More tugging at the coat sleeve.
"Will you have dinner with me tonight? Please?"
Patricia gave him an appraising look, head-to-toe like a roué undressing a woman with his eyes.
"You've a right brass neck, so you have." The friend glared at Barry. "Anyway, we're busy the night."
Patricia smiled. "That's right. We are."
"Oh." Barry felt that his being able to catch up with the pair had been like a last-minute stay of execution, but by her words Patricia had told him that the warden's midnight call had not come and wasn't going to. His shoulders sagged.
"But I'm taking the ten o'clock train back to the Kinnegar."
He saw the laugh in her dark eyes, and his breath caught in his throat.
Barry sat in a plastic-covered chair at a Formica-topped table in the window alcove of the upstairs room of O'Kane's Bar, the nearest watering hole to the Royal Victoria Hospital. At his feet a pair of Wellington boots lay in a brown paper bag. He glanced at his watch. Jack Mills was late, and that wasn't like Jack. The curtains behind Barry swayed in the draught coming in through the window. He tried to see out through the smut and drizzle streaks. He leant back and peered up Grosvenor Road to the casualty department, outside which, regal and dignified, the bronze statue of Her Royal Majesty Victoria, Regina, Dei Gratia, Rid. Def., Ind., Imp., sat enthroned. Her sceptre, covered in bird shite, made a
Barry wished the young woman would shut up. She had a voice that would cut tin.
The other chuckled. Her laugh was contralto, deep and resonant. Barry glanced at her. She had black hair with a sheen like a healthy animal's pelt. Her face was strong, with a firm chin and full lips that bore the merest hint of pale pink lipstick. Slavic cheekbones. Dark eyes with an upward tilt. They had a deep, unfathomable glow, like the warmth in well-polished mahogany. Her skin was smooth and tanned, and a small dimple showed in her left cheek as she laughed. But for that dimple, she could have been Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady.
Her laughter died, and Barry found himself wishing that she would laugh again. He didn't want her to see him staring, so he looked away, but soon he found his gaze drawn back. She was looking out the window. He saw her in profile. She wore an unbuttoned white gabardine raincoat.
"Anyway, Patricia," her friend rattled on, "I says to Eileen, says I. . ."
Would she never stop prattling? He glanced down and then stole another look. Patricia, that was her name; Patricia turned, caught him staring, and held his gaze. His hand flew to his head, and he smoothed the damn tuft. "Excuse me," he said, knowing that he was blushing. "I'm awfully sorry. . . ."
She laughed again, warm and throaty. "A cat can look at a king . . . if it doesn't think the king's a mouse."
"I'm sorry."
The train slowed. He saw the sign for Belfast Station glide past the window. The train stopped. They left. Barry closed his eyes and sat back against the cushions. Why in hell had he not had the courage to find out more about Patricia? In the movies she would have left something on the train, something he could use as an excuse to run after her. No such luck. Ships that pass, he thought, and yet, and yet. . .
He left the compartment not expecting to see any sign of Patricia and her chatty friend, but there they were up ahead, Patricia leaning on the noisy one's arm and limping slowly. Must have hurt herself playing hockey, he thought. She certainly looked the athletic type. He took a deep breath, smoothed his hair, and lengthened his stride until he drew level.
"Excuse me," he said, "excuse me."
Patricia stopped and faced him.
"Come away on out of that, Patricia." The friend tugged at Patricia's sleeve and scowled at Barry.
Words tumbled out. "Look. My name's Barry Laverty. I want. . . that is . . . I'd like--"
"Away off and chase yourself." More tugging at the coat sleeve.
"Will you have dinner with me tonight? Please?"
Patricia gave him an appraising look, head-to-toe like a roué undressing a woman with his eyes.
"You've a right brass neck, so you have." The friend glared at Barry. "Anyway, we're busy the night."
Patricia smiled. "That's right. We are."
"Oh." Barry felt that his being able to catch up with the pair had been like a last-minute stay of execution, but by her words Patricia had told him that the warden's midnight call had not come and wasn't going to. His shoulders sagged.
"But I'm taking the ten o'clock train back to the Kinnegar."
He saw the laugh in her dark eyes, and his breath caught in his throat.
Barry sat in a plastic-covered chair at a Formica-topped table in the window alcove of the upstairs room of O'Kane's Bar, the nearest watering hole to the Royal Victoria Hospital. At his feet a pair of Wellington boots lay in a brown paper bag. He glanced at his watch. Jack Mills was late, and that wasn't like Jack. The curtains behind Barry swayed in the draught coming in through the window. He tried to see out through the smut and drizzle streaks. He leant back and peered up Grosvenor Road to the casualty department, outside which, regal and dignified, the bronze statue of Her Royal Majesty Victoria, Regina, Dei Gratia, Rid. Def., Ind., Imp., sat enthroned. Her sceptre, covered in bird shite, made a
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