1999 by Morgan Llywelyn Page B

not official yet but you can expect the announcement soon. Now, what about Séamus? Maybe you’re imagining things. He always did smoke like a chimney and that makes a man cough.”
    â€œHe’s not supposed to touch cigarettes anymore. Doctor’s orders.”
    â€œWho obeys those? Séamus could have cigarettes stashed everywhere the way a secret drinker stashes whiskey. And if he looks pale it’s because a man can’t get a sunburn in Ireland. Stop mindering him. Going back on active service could be the best tonic for the man.”
    â€œI’m sure you’re right,” Barry said with a total lack of conviction.
    MacThomáis was a perennial optimist who anticipated rainbows where others saw rain. It was one of the qualities Barry liked most about the man. But he remained convinced that McCoy was ill. If Séamus goes back to the Army he won’t take proper care of himself. Even as a training officer he’ll be on the run a lot of the time and out in all weathers . Based on past experience, he won’t seek medical care until it’s too late.
    Have to keep him here. Have to.
    Shortly after noon Barry headed for Harold’s Cross. Most Dublin restaurants were closed at midday; a peculiarly Irish custom. Pubs offered only a limited assortment of toasted sandwiches and the ubiquitous pickled eggs, so Barry preferred to eat at home. Cooking was Philpott’s passion and he always left something good in the Aga. Today it was a casserole. Barbara made a fresh pot of tea and joined Barry and McCoy at the table.
    The older man declined the food.
    â€œIt’s beef and potatoes,” Barbara urged. “Your favourite.”
    â€œTea’ll do me.”
    Barry furtively scanned his face for signs of illness.
    â€œWhy do you keep looking at me like that?”
    â€œDucks’ meat, * Séamus.”
    McCoy knuckled his eyes. “There. You happy now?”
    â€œHappy enough. If you’re not going to eat your food, pass it over here, will you? Thanks. What are you doing this afternoon?”
    â€œThought I’d ramble around town for a while. Get some air.”
    â€œPull the other one, Séamus, it has bells on,” Barbara said. “You’re going to the Bleeding Horse.” She stood up, rigid with disapproval, and headed for the kitchen.
    McCoy gave a chuckle. “‘Pull the other one, it has bells on.’ I’ll say this for the girl, she’s learning to talk like us. She still has the American twang, though.”
    â€œNot when she sings,” said Barry.
    After lunch he retired to the darkroom he had fitted out in the former pantry. The windowless room was small and stuffy, but its proximity to the kitchen meant Barry could listen to Barbara singing while she washed the dishes.
    The first time he heard her sing was in 1964. She and her mother had visited the Hallorans on their way to Italy—and to the teacher who would destroy the girl’s prospects for an operatic career. Barry would never forget Barbara’s rendition of Adalgisa’s aria from Norma . Standing beside a paddock at the Halloran farm, she had sung in a rich contralto, “Deh! Proteggimi, o Dio!” —the impassioned plea of a woman begging the gods to save her from a fatal love.
    If amber could sing , Barry had thought then, it would sound like Barbara Kavanagh .
    The voice was a little husky in the lower register now, a bit roughened in the high notes, but its power over him was undiminished. Of all her physical attributes, her voice was the most truly Barbara.
    Barry was about to put the last roll of film in the tray of developer when he heard the double ring of the telephone. He wiped his hands and headed for the hall.
    Outside the curtained alcove, he paused.
    Ursula Halloran was an inveterate eavesdropper, a habit her son lamented. But when Barbara shouted at her mother it was impossible not to hear.
    Barry stood absolutely