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“Oh, Mr. Mack, I wouldn’t doubt you a minute. I stick up for you desperate in the street, so I do. I let them know that Mr. Mack is a gentleman. He wouldn’t break the peace if he dropped it.” She was scamandering about, touching articles with her fingers. “They say the Fenians has a telegraph and they do tap out instructions to the German U-boats. That’s why troop movements is secret in times of war. Did you know that, Mr. Mack?”

Her long fingers touching his wares. Unholy the way she moved, making play with her hips. He recollected his station and stood by the till. “Was it something in particular you was after?”

“Was wondering had you any of them gurkhas left?”

“Haven’t I told you already ’tis gherkins you mean. Gurkhas is Indian troops. Is it Madame MacMurrough sent you?”

“Not at all. I have a great fancy for them these days. Have you tried one ever yourself?”

“Nancy, I got these gherkins in for special customers. They’re not to be thrun about idly.”

“Sure they’re above gathering dust since I can remember.”

Grumbling, he fetched down a jar. “Scattering your earnings on nipperty-tips. Have you no bottom drawer to be seeing to?” This was sailing too close to the wind, so he quickly humphed and changed the subject. “They’ll leave you ill if you eats too many of them.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “For I do be getting the gicks something rotten of a morning.”

“Now, didn’t I tell you?” He took her money and was counting her change. Already she had the jar open and she dipped her fingers, spilling brine on the counter. More Jeyes Fluid. He looked at her face while she crunched the green thing. Grown-up she looked and clean and spotless. Ladyfied almost, under the gas. In a way it was a shame she was only a slavey. Her face was radiant in fact. Never mind the gick, she looked the pink of health. “There you are, Nancy.”

“Thanks now, Mr. Mack.”

Big blue bow on her blouse and a petersham round her boater. He held the door for her leaving. “Do they let you out this late at Madame MacMurrough’s?”

“Not at all. Amn’t I only back from my aunt’s at Blackrock? She’s poorly sure.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She’s old, Mr. Mack.”

“May God keep her.”

“Your mouth to God’s ears.”

“Go careful now, Nancy.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

A thought struck as he bolted the door. He shuddered, then quickly cast it out. Through the ha’penny canes that hung at the glass he watched her cross the spill of light. The saunter of her, the way she’d crack nuts with her tail.

Abruptly, down the lane, a voice broke into a clear musical whistle. He pulled a damning face. That’ll be Gordie now, making a mockery of us in the street.

The thought died on him. No, that’s not Gordie at all. No, that won’t be Gordie, not for a long while yet.

CHAPTER TEN

Aunt Eva was in the garden room, on a bentwood rocker, a tickled surmise on her face. She was perusing through a spy glass a rough sheet called the Irish Volunteer. The wicker table presented similar matter. The Gael, the Gaelic American, Eire, United Irishwoman, The Leader, Spark; along with the Irish Automobile Club newsletter and yesterday’s London Times. “At last,” she said when MacMurrough joined her. Her head flicked in irritation, a mannerism from her girlhood, he believed, when her trailing locks she tossed behind, a forbidding come-hither to his grandfather’s cronies.

She offered her hand and he guided her up and into the diningroom. He pulled her chair and sat her, but before he might sit himself, she remarked, unfolding her napkin, “I recollect it was the previous King who instituted that curious fashion. Whether through negligence or corpulence, we are not told.”

His unclosed waistcoat button. Friday lunch: the routine fish to break the flesh routine; food to be served tepid and dolloped on plates; but the service pristine, plates boasting the family crest, all form obeyed. He slipped the last button through its loop in his waistcoat and sat. A maid came, unknown face and manner, only the white Berlin gloves familiar.