have loved to, for come Sunday he was as thoroughly depressed and agitated over his withdrawal from Boadicea as an alcoholic might be from his whisky. Hence, by Thursday of the following week, his good intentions of limiting his visits looked set to collapse, for he had been to The Angel four times in as many days, and in all probability would be there on a fifth.
It did not matter that often he had not even the chance to converse with her other than to obtain his drink of choice; he was content be in her presence, to watch and to listen and to admire. Barely able to afford even the one pint per visit, he had foregone other things, walked miles to work where once he might have caught the bus, in order just to sit nursing the glass that permitted him to be near her; a nearness that became almost unbearable as he witnessed others do what he himself would love to be doing. He was deeply jealous of the ease with which they chatted to her, though he told himself he had no right to be. It was not as if she belonged to him.
Which in turn made him ask, did he want her to? Sitting there on his own, night after night, levered away from the bar by those more extrovert, and by his own lack of confidence, in his unobtrusive corner he had been privy to all manner of discussion about the fair Irish barmaid, and would have known if there had been a rival. He had even heard one fool comment that she was a bonny enough lass but there must be ‘summat up with her’ to remain a spinster at her age. Well, here was one who would have her.
Acutely conscious where this would lead, and how it would hurt Ellen’s family and possibly his children, and that he was a hypocrite for the way he had condemned his brother yet was following the same route himself, Niall tried hard to overcome his feelings … but maybe not hard enough … or maybe it was just that he did not really want to. He could not remember experiencing such a reaction over anyone, not even Ellen in the first flush of courtship. He had not even known it was possible to feel a passion that took over one’s entire life. Which was why, finally abandoning all self-delusion, all pretence of noble resistance, and surrendering to a baser, masculine selfishness, he decided he must pluck up the courage and ask her to go out with him.
Yet, whilst his happiness flourished over this decision, so too did his guilt, for, acting totally against character, he had lied to those at home about the recent change in his social habits, had made out that he had joined the Railway Institute where there were all kind of activities to take one’s mind off one’s sorrows – feeling guiltier still at using a dead wife as his excuse. But nothing could have deterred him now from seeing that lovely Celtic lass.
Obsessed as he had become in his mission, hoping like some callow schoolboy to disguise his tracks by way of sucking peppermints, Niall did not realise for a while that such uncharacteristic behaviour had spurred others into action. Not until that Friday evening did he see disaster loom. He had opened the door of the pub, about to enter, when, alerted by a police whistle, he turned swiftly to see two officers bearing down on a youth who ran for his life, their truncheons at the ready. But it was something even more unnerving that caught his eye. Looking as startled as he himself felt, Harriet stopped dead in her tracks, making it obvious she had been following him.
Instantly defensive, Niall took a step backwards into the street, allowing the door to swing shut as he turned to confront her, his stance indignant. ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’
His sister-in-law’s expression of guilt was quickly replaced with one of determination, as she bustled up and thrust her face at him. ‘And what are you playing at? Cracking on you were going to the Institute—’
‘Can’t a bloke change his mind? I decided I couldn’t be bothered to trail all that way – me legs do get enough punishment at work, you know!’
She tapped his chest knowingly. ‘You can’t pull the wool over my eyes! What’s going on, Nye?’
‘Nothing!’ But Niall felt the heat of embarrassment as it rose up his neck, turning his face red. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’
Confronted by his anger, Harriet failed to interpret the underlying guilt, but instead took it as indication that her mother had been correct, he was trying to conceal something. ‘I’ll bet you’ve been nowhere near the Institute. You’ve been coming here all the time, haven’t you?’
‘I haven’t!’
‘I don’t believe you!’ came the blunt accusation.
‘And what if I have?’ he demanded testily. ‘What has it got to do with anybody else? You’ve no right to be following me!’
Harriet grasped his upper arm in an act of concern. ‘Look, Nye, it’s only for your own good. We can see how you miss Ellen. I still can’t believe she’s gone so it must be ten times worse for you, losing your wife …’
At the sound of her name his belly flipped again. How could he have let himself be caught out in such shameful fashion? Now he guessed how his brother must have felt.
‘But you can’t drown your sorrows, you know,’ said Harriet. ‘You’ll just pickle your liver, and then where will your children be?’
When her victim continued to frown at her blankly, obviously unwilling to admit his problem, she added a lively incitement. ‘If you think you’ve been covering it up with peppermints you’re wrong!’
In the wonderful realisation that he was not being accused of anything worse, Niall felt his chest flood with relief, eventually demanding with a forced, dry bark, ‘You think I’m turning into an alcoholic?’
‘You might not accept it, but this is how it starts,’ reasoned Harriet.
But this evinced only humour, Niall shaking his head and his face creased with laughter, such was his relief. ‘You daft bugger! How could I afford it with your mam doling out my spending money?’
At this, Harriet let go of his arm and paused to consider the matter, her face undergoing a gradual dawning.
‘In fact,’ Niall went on strenuously, ‘I’ve been told off by t’landlord for making my pint last an hour and a half. Come and ask him if you don’t believe me.’ It was a safe enough invitation; she would never be seen in a bar.
‘No, no!’ His sister-in-law was looking somewhat relieved herself now. ‘I’ll take your word for it … of course it makes sense … sorry, it’s just that we’ve all been so worried for you, Nye.’ She inclined her square jaw in an attitude of repentance, her glassy grey orbs searching his.
‘Thanks,’ he said with gratitude, though suddenly awash with renewed penitence at so deceiving her. ‘But don’t be. I just need to get out of the house for a while. These dark evenings are getting me down …’
‘Well, I hope you’re not staring into your glass, moping.’ She wagged a finger at him, though satisfied enough with his explanation.
‘No, there’s usually a game of darts or dominoes to occupy me.’ That was true; at least there would have been had he wanted to disrupt his happier pursuit for a more trivial one.
Accepting this at last, Harriet apologised again. ‘Well, I’m sorry we thought the worst of you. Carry on and enjoy yourself.’ And with that she backed away into the darkness, saying she would go home now and vindicate him with her mother and sister.
Glad of her departure, Niall considered himself lucky, told himself he should be more careful and should not pursue this doomed liaison. And at that moment he seriously considered it. But, pushing open the door to the saloon, his eyes lit up as they settled upon Boadicea,
