I didn’t attempt to meet anybody after the show. Venetia had been so emphatic, so specific about our appointment next day, and I didn’t want to breach her arrangements or jeopardize my own interests. Which, by now, had become considerable. I thought of nothing but her, I imagined nothing but being with her. As to how it might work out regarding my father—I had no idea what to do, and it didn’t seem to be troubling me very much.

Anyway, I had a more immediate problem—I had no place to stay. Having got lost on my way to the show had left me without a chance to find a place for the night. I can best describe my state and attitude as “light-headed”—not quite irresponsible and wild but getting there fast. Yet for all my feckless mood I didn’t want to sleep in the car—so I reversed my earlier decision and decided to sleep at home. That’s how consistent I was!

I knew how to do it without being detected. If I cut the headlights before rounding the corner, I could leave the car parked on the driveway; I could even face it back toward the road for a quick dawn getaway.

All went according to plan. I tiptoed from the parked car onto the grass verge and walked along to the yard, then slipped through the back door. With the flashlight I had taken from the car I found bread, cheese, and milk, and ate in the kitchen.

The house had an uneasy feel, but I couldn’t say why. Things seemed to have been put back in wrong places; the bucket of spring water for the kitchen (drawn every day from the well, usually by Billy, Lily, or me) always lived on a small wooden platform inside the scullery door; now it had been moved along the wall to a more inconvenient place. Two empty mugs sat on the table, something never allowed by Mother, who liked all surfaces clean and clear. The aprons hung on a hook in the scullery, and not on the rear of the main kitchen door.

I headed upstairs, feeling disjointed. And—shock! I found my bedroom door locked. I stopped and listened—not a sound anywhere. Again I tried the doorknob, and pressed the door hard in case something had jammed. No, this door was locked. But it had never been locked; there was a key; it lived above the door on the lip of the frame—but I’d never seen it used in my life.

We had four bedrooms—my parents’ room, mine, and two guest rooms. I tried the two empty rooms first—all doors locked. No keys anywhere, nothing on top of any doorframe. I figured that I had to brave Mother, so I knocked on her partly open door. Had she been locking these rooms for a reason? I needed to know. No answer. I knocked again, slightly louder, then I beamed my flashlight and tipped open the door an inch at a time. And found an empty room.

The bed remained as impeccably dressed as she left it every day. I lit the large oil lamp on my father’s night table and looked all around. Some decision had been taken about this room. It felt abandoned. Everything might have seemed normal—but there’s more to a room than the way the furniture is arranged.

I then lit her lamp, and the two together gave me a very full light. Walking here and there, I looked at this and that, uncomfortable at the hugeness of the sinister shadows I made—but that wasn’t what disturbed me. Something here was very wrong; I had come home to an empty house.

Everywhere I went, I found the same impression—although things seemed more or less normal, they also felt different. Downstairs, some chairs had been moved around in the parlor; the settee in the hall had been dragged a foot or two along the hall and no longer sat under the painting of Connemara; no coats hung on the racks in the porch.

I opened the front door and walked out—a frosty night and the stars doing their best to light the world. With heavy footsteps I made deliberate noise as I walked into the yard—but no bark. In the first loose box, Bobbie Boy lay asleep. In the second box, the pony stirred—but what was going on? Where was the dog? And Miss Kennedy, the cat?

Typically we took the cows in during November, and they stayed in the cowshed until March or thereabouts. Saint Patrick’s Day, the seventeenth, always had significance for dairy farmers, because by then we probably had enough new grass to let them out—though we had to be sure of having enough hay scattered in the fields. The cows were fine; they turned their heavy heads to look at my flashlight. One or two lumbered up in alarm.

That’s where I should have slept that night—with the cows. Instead, I lay in my parents’ bed—and on my father’s side. If you assume that such a deed might have given me gyp, you’re right—a very odd feeling indeed. When I lay down, I saw that my legs reached longer than my father’s did. On how many past occasions had I seen him in this bed? Since early childhood, for instance, when I’d climb on top of him in the morning and insist on his getting up.

And this had been the bed of my parents’ wedding night. Their honeymoon had been delayed due to some international tension or fracas somewhere, and they cleared the house of all the people, so that they had their first night alone together—in this bed. Shouldn’t that remembrance have made me queasy in some way? It didn’t. I’d never heard the word taboo and I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to have such thoughts.

Perhaps you’re finding this strange—but I knew nothing whatsoever about what we call “the facts of life.” Not a thing. I had no anatomical knowledge; I had no emotional knowledge.

None of that would feel surprising to any man or woman who grew up in the Irish countryside during the early twentieth century. Who was to teach us anything? Certainly not our parents—because all of that was only to be learned within marriage. What a crash course! Outside of marriage any discussion of sex was a sin. In short, we all knew there were taboo subjects without knowing the subjects, or their language.

So I lay there, on my father’s side of his marriage bed, and wondered what to think about—I mean about him and Mother in this bed. Instead I began to think of Venetia—again. These were romantic thoughts. Rivers came into it, and misty valleys, and flowers and snatches of poems and songs, and possible gifts, and once again the idea of making great riches so that I could shower her with beautiful things. I fell asleep.

Next morning I woke up early. The clatter of buckets in the yard felt so normal that I forgot the oddities of last night. Yet, there I found myself in my parents’ bed. I turned my head, half-expecting to see my mother—a weird moment: The relief that she wasn’t there surged through me. Can feelings get any more confused than that? I came close to laughing.

The house, though, disturbed me even more in daylight, with its atmosphere so different from normal. I dressed quickly—still half dark outside—and headed downstairs. Too early for Lily, but from the yard came the noises of milking. Not many cows milk all through the winter, so I wondered which of the two men would be here.

Ned Ryan, little Ned, had taken charge that morning. He saw me as I saw him, and he turned away so rapidly that I thought he couldn’t have seen me. I followed him. He dropped the empty bucket and ran into the cowshed. I ran after him and we had a ridiculous chase—ridiculous because he could never get away from me; he was three times my age.

When I cornered him at last, down the driveway, near where I’d parked the car, he wouldn’t look at me. Nor would he speak to me.

“Ned, what’s going on? Where’s my mother?”

He kept his head turned away, his face downcast.

“Ned, is she ill?”—of which I’d been afraid.

Now he turned completely away and I assumed the worst.

“Where is she?”

“She’s at her sister’s. There’s nothing wrong with her. But, Ben, get outta here, go on, go on.”

Now I made a great error—or did I? I did what he had suggested; I climbed into the car and drove away. My reasons are perfectly simple—I wanted nothing to interfere with the promise of the day and the crucial appointment that I had to keep that afternoon.