every possible view of her face and mouth.
“You also never asked me why I'm going into Limerick. Well, I'll tell you. I'm going to see a widower. He has two hardware shops and a farm over in County Clare. I don't know the first thing about him, except that he wrote me a nice letter asking me to find him a wife; his own wife died four months ago. That's what I like— a man who believes in marriage. Very good for my business.” She tapped a front tooth very seriously andyanked at it a little. “Women mourn their husbands, men replace their wives.”
Now, on the roadside, Maeve MacNulty began to rearrange her person. First of all, she took off her hat, and parked it on the roof of the car, and stuck the hatpin into her jacket perilously close to her blue pillowed bosom. Next she groomed the edges of her hair, tucking a hank behind one ear and covering the other one.
“This is my good ear”—she pointed to the exposed side—”and I always keep it out. Don't want to miss anything.” She raised each eyebrow in turn as though to test its competence. Then she batted her eyelids and plucked at them— a stabbing grab of thumb and forefinger, a peculiar gesture, rather as a man snatches a fly from the air.
“I always wake up with sand in my eyes if I'm in a low mood. Or do I wake up in a low mood because I have sand in my eyes?”
With a nasal whinny, she plastered her knuckles over her nostrils. “I have cobwebs on my face.”
Then she got back to her teeth again and played the xylophone with a fingernail along the top row.
“D'you know, I always think it a cheek to be arranging marriages when I was never married myself. How can I guess what it'd be like to wake up in the night beside a man who was grunting and kicking? Well, I suppose I could grunt and kick too.”
Robert finished pouring and lowered the can. He raised an inquiring eyebrow and tapped the second can. She nodded; then she fell somewhat still and lowered her head. Robert poured anew.
When she raised her head again, after many seconds, she said, “Do you know why I never married? Well, I'll tell you. I was engaged to a lovely man. Some people have food as their heaven, some have horses. Well, he was my heaven. But he was in the Munster Fusiliers and he died with the rest of the regiment in France. There isn't an able-bodied man left in this country. We lost whole villages of men to that bloody war.”
She bowed her head again. He finished pouring; she looked at his rucksack.
“I'm going to take you to the house of my friend Sheila Neary” Maeve MacNulty rose again from her lonely mood. “She could do with a bit of a lift-up.”
Robert said, “About— about your fiancé.”
She turned, stopped by the earnest note in his voice.
“What about him?”
Robert said, “You can be certain that he died well.”
She looked at him, astonished, and began to bridle. “No, he did not! It was a battle. Awful. He died in the mud.”
“But he died nobly.”
She said, with anger, “How would you know?” And then she reduced the sharpness of the sentence to repeat it. “How would you— know that?”
Robert said, “Men have never been as noble. I was in France too.”
Maeve MacNulty became confused. “Oh, look, I mean—” She stopped. “I don't know how he died. I only know he was a lovely fellow.”
Robert said, “Think of how lucky you were. You knew him better than anybody else.”
She walked away, stood for a moment on the far side of the road with her back to Robert, and then walked back. The engine had been running all this time. As she now seemed without words, Robert took the opportunity to examine the car: the lamps, the grille lined with gray steel mesh, the bulb horn (which she used liberally and unnecessarily on the road), the gleaming spokes.
Maeve MacNulty found her voice. “A Morris Cowley” she said. By now she had brightened again. “They call it a bullnose and that's why I bought it. I like every part of a
“You also never asked me why I'm going into Limerick. Well, I'll tell you. I'm going to see a widower. He has two hardware shops and a farm over in County Clare. I don't know the first thing about him, except that he wrote me a nice letter asking me to find him a wife; his own wife died four months ago. That's what I like— a man who believes in marriage. Very good for my business.” She tapped a front tooth very seriously andyanked at it a little. “Women mourn their husbands, men replace their wives.”
Now, on the roadside, Maeve MacNulty began to rearrange her person. First of all, she took off her hat, and parked it on the roof of the car, and stuck the hatpin into her jacket perilously close to her blue pillowed bosom. Next she groomed the edges of her hair, tucking a hank behind one ear and covering the other one.
“This is my good ear”—she pointed to the exposed side—”and I always keep it out. Don't want to miss anything.” She raised each eyebrow in turn as though to test its competence. Then she batted her eyelids and plucked at them— a stabbing grab of thumb and forefinger, a peculiar gesture, rather as a man snatches a fly from the air.
“I always wake up with sand in my eyes if I'm in a low mood. Or do I wake up in a low mood because I have sand in my eyes?”
With a nasal whinny, she plastered her knuckles over her nostrils. “I have cobwebs on my face.”
Then she got back to her teeth again and played the xylophone with a fingernail along the top row.
“D'you know, I always think it a cheek to be arranging marriages when I was never married myself. How can I guess what it'd be like to wake up in the night beside a man who was grunting and kicking? Well, I suppose I could grunt and kick too.”
Robert finished pouring and lowered the can. He raised an inquiring eyebrow and tapped the second can. She nodded; then she fell somewhat still and lowered her head. Robert poured anew.
When she raised her head again, after many seconds, she said, “Do you know why I never married? Well, I'll tell you. I was engaged to a lovely man. Some people have food as their heaven, some have horses. Well, he was my heaven. But he was in the Munster Fusiliers and he died with the rest of the regiment in France. There isn't an able-bodied man left in this country. We lost whole villages of men to that bloody war.”
She bowed her head again. He finished pouring; she looked at his rucksack.
“I'm going to take you to the house of my friend Sheila Neary” Maeve MacNulty rose again from her lonely mood. “She could do with a bit of a lift-up.”
Robert said, “About— about your fiancé.”
She turned, stopped by the earnest note in his voice.
“What about him?”
Robert said, “You can be certain that he died well.”
She looked at him, astonished, and began to bridle. “No, he did not! It was a battle. Awful. He died in the mud.”
“But he died nobly.”
She said, with anger, “How would you know?” And then she reduced the sharpness of the sentence to repeat it. “How would you— know that?”
Robert said, “Men have never been as noble. I was in France too.”
Maeve MacNulty became confused. “Oh, look, I mean—” She stopped. “I don't know how he died. I only know he was a lovely fellow.”
Robert said, “Think of how lucky you were. You knew him better than anybody else.”
She walked away, stood for a moment on the far side of the road with her back to Robert, and then walked back. The engine had been running all this time. As she now seemed without words, Robert took the opportunity to examine the car: the lamps, the grille lined with gray steel mesh, the bulb horn (which she used liberally and unnecessarily on the road), the gleaming spokes.
Maeve MacNulty found her voice. “A Morris Cowley” she said. By now she had brightened again. “They call it a bullnose and that's why I bought it. I like every part of a
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