The South by Colm Tóibín

face as it cametowards her, struck a chord. She stared at people and they stared back. She was desperate.
    The letter to Tom lay on the mantelpiece in the room. She had sealed the envelope and was grateful that she could not re-read the letter she had written him almost ten days before. But it was brief and to the point. I am in Dublin. I want to see you about certain matters and will wait here until I do so. Kindly contact me. She picked up the phone and rang down to reception.
    “Could I please have my breakfast up here? Yes, and there’s a letter I want posted—could you arrange that for me? It’s rather urgent. Thank you.” She went back to the window and stood watching the grey morning. The letter lay on the mantelpiece; she could tear it up, pay her bill and leave without seeing him. Her courage could fail her and it was simply a matter of courage; in any case, she had no reason to face him other than to extract what she wanted. There was no sentimentality in her calculations, she could do without him.
    The maid came with the breakfast tray and left it on the table.
    “I called down to say that I had a letter to post,” she said. “It’s there on the mantelpiece. It’s very urgent.”
    “It’ll be sent out immediately,” the woman said.
    “Now?” she asked.
    “If you like the porter can take it down to the GPO this instant.”
    “Yes, I would be very grateful.”
    There was still time to go to the phone to cancel the letter, to tell them not to send it, to decide to wait for a day or two. And when she didn’t ring down, when she had finished her breakfast and was fully dressed, she knew she had better be ready for him, that it was only a matter of days now before she would be blamed and accused, and would have no answer or excuse, when there would be no forgiveness.
    She regretted now that she had not specified how he should contact her. He could arrive unannounced at the hotel. As the day went by, she tried to imagine what he would do when he got her letter, how he would react. She began to think of him. It was five years since she had left, it would be exactly five in September. He would be fifty-three now, fifteen years older than she, he would not have changed much except that he might be balder, stockier.
    She had lunch in her room with wine and a gin afterwards to make her sleep. Her dreams in the afternoon were vivid and close to her; they left their mark on what remained of the day.
    She imagined Tom quiet, determined, composed. She saw him opening the letter in the evening when his day’s work was done, when he had washed, shaved and changed into a tweed jacket and cavalry twill trousers, after a dinner which he would have eaten mostly in silence.
    Richard would be there now, fifteen years old, settling into his father’s ways, and there would mostly be silence between them but no strain. Her name would not have been mentioned between them in five years.
    Tom would wait for a day or two before responding; he would leave her time. He was careful, cautious, judicious. She didn’t want time; she was ready to face him. He would not use the telephone or send a telegram; he cared too much for his privacy and these offered no privacy. He would write; she awaited a letter. Hers had been posted on Monday and his reply arrived on Friday. It was short and curt as her own had been. Will see you at hotel, Monday 5 pm. That was all.
    She saw him as soon as he came into the lounge. His hair was greyer than before, but that was the only change. She had bought new clothes in the morning and had been to a hairdresser which had helped her feel ready for him. She stood up.
    “How long have you been in Dublin?” he asked immediately.
    “I’ve been here for two weeks. How are you?” She held out her hand.
    “I thought the date on your letter was a mistake.” He held her hand for a moment, then let go.
    “Yes, I didn’t send it for a while after I wrote it.”
    “Do sit down,” he said. She sat with her