Читать книгу Ireland in Travail онлайн

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“What time does the train go?”

“Half-seven.”

“It’s been a choppy night.”

“It has.” An Irishman never says yes or no. I learned that quickly. “Here’s himself coming back.”

My husband turned up. “You’ve been christened Himself,” I said. “I’m going to call you that while we’re in Ireland.”

“Do you feel pretty bad?” he answered.

“Awful.” I subsided on an unknown person’s luggage. Himself wandered about, and the long-lipped porter, having decided we were worth while, wandered after him doing as little as possible.

I was put into a train, and from that train we emerged at last. Himself went to get a garry, and once more I did sentinel duty over the luggage.

A youth with a dirty grey cap pulled over his eyes and a trench coat on eyed me from behind a pillar-box. I stared back and he seemed to retire. Presently I saw his head round the other side of the pillar-box. He chewed a small green leaf.

We piled our things up on the garry. The soft clean air curled round my face and I breathed contentedly.