He was lying on his side with his hands out in front of him. He woke with a shock, opening one eye and looking around, as if recovering from a parachute landing into enemy territory. He tried to swallow.
‘We need to talk,’ she said.
‘I shoved the priest.’
‘Aye, you did.’
‘I wanted to hit you.’
‘Aye, I know.’
‘I called him all manner of words.’ He sat up. ‘I get these pictures in my head of you with other men. God almighty, it’s true I’ve gone and fucked up the entire day.’
He rubbed his face.
‘It’s true, Sean, you know. There have been other men.’ He closed his eyes.
‘But those children are ours, yours and mine.’
‘If I ask you who and when I’ll be angry, and I won’t be able to do anything about it, so I’m gathering myself up, Kathleen, not to ask you.’
She saw the wrinkles at either side of his eyes that criss-crossed with the bags underneath his eyes, made a grid. She saw the arable-grey stubble of his cheeks and chin, the large pink landscape of his forehead lined with four or five west-east tracks. His eyes were the same as when they had met, but more diluted; his lower lashes were pale, like Aine’s.
Outside a passer-by was whistling as loudly as he could, a rousing, swelling noise. For what reason?
‘I’m going to change. I’m going to take the pledge and give up the drink and I’m going to find myself a new line of work. We’re going to put some money aside and we’ll go for a trip to Donegal or wherever we fancy.’
She sat beside him. ‘I’ve to try and change as well, Sean.’
‘No. I love you. I always have, Kathleen. I always will. I don’t care.’ She put an arm about him and with her face on his shoulder she looked across at the dressing table with the small white Madonna, the ornaments, photos and bits and bobs that told the story of her married life and she wondered if she didn’t love him at all. They had fought together.
When they went downstairs, Father Pearse was asleep in the armchair, paper hat askew, and Liam and Aine were looking guilty. Aine was holding the microphone and Liam switched off the tape recorder.
‘Father Pearse farted,’ said Aine, her cheeks struggling. ‘We’re trying to get another one on record.’
Sean gave the priest a nudge with his knuckle, under the chin.
‘What the devil is it now?’ said the father, opening his eyes.
‘Father,’ said Sean, stooping over him, his tone thick as the gravy. ‘I want to take the pledge.’
‘And I’m fecking Julie Andrews,’ said the priest, closing his eyes.