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Spent a week on the farm at Kilcrea, and when I got back – I’d warned Clifford I’d be tired from the ferry, sitting up all night on a wooden seat, and I was tired, but then when Eileen asked, did I want to come to the dance, I’d be lying if I didn’t wonder. I didn’t see you again till the New Year. I had a room with Mrs O’Shea on the Broadway, and he had to get to Epping, where he lived with his mother. Cliff was working the next morning, and he wanted to drop me home. Who’s your new friend? Clifford held me, stiff and disapproving, as we clinked round the room.
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What was it? I’m not sure I know, but you understood, and you released your hold. Your face darkened and your grip tightened, but I looked at you, and I gave you a sign. Cliff was always the gentleman, always polite, I think I only agreed to marry him because he asked so nicely, but politeness, that was never your style.
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My eyes must have closed, because I remember the surprise as they snapped open and there was Clifford. Next was that dreadful song by Eddy Duchin about not waiting till Christmas to be good, and we were arranging ourselves, ready to start again, when I felt a hand on my arm. I’ll never end, it told us, peeping high and low, two voices, mine and yours, and then the trumpets blasted and the notes slid into a swing and we were roaring, laughing, our fingertips on fire. We swooped away to the lilt of the trombone, the clarinet smooth, talking, pleading, as we floated around the room. You weren’t tall, I could look you in the eye in my new heels, but you were strong, and you could dance. ‘“Begin the Beguine,”’ the bandmaster announced. ‘Cashel Kelly.’ You put out your hand, and I took it as the music started. I was there with Clifford Bray, but as soon as he released me to step outside and smoke, there you were at my side. Black hair, the curls oiled down, the flash of your green eyes.