The ground floor of Sal’s house was divided in two by a counter. Behind the counter, where she stood most of the day, were shelves and cupboards crammed with goods. She stocked everything people needed except gin. She could have made a lot of money selling gin by the glass, but she hated to see drunkenness – perhaps on account of Jarge’s weakness – and she preferred to have nothing to do with strong drink.
They often chatted. She had always liked Colin. They were the same age and both were community leaders. They had gone together to confront Hornbeam. And Sal had dreamed about being in bed with him.
One day in 1819 she said to him: ‘I don’t know if I ever told you, but my son, Kit, was the first person to speak to you when you came here.’
‘Is that so?’
‘And your wife, rest her soul. I was sorry to hear that she had passed away.’
‘It’s half a year ago now.’
‘And the children all grown up and married.’
‘Yes.’
‘I remember the day you arrived. Kit came running home with news of four wagons full of foreigners.’
‘I think I remember a little fellow.’
‘You asked his name, and told him yours. He said he had spoken to a tall man with black hair who talked very strangely.’
Colin laughed. ‘Well, that’s me all right.’
Sal looked out of the window and saw that night was falling. ‘It’s time for me to close,’ she said.
‘Right. I’ll be off.’
She looked at him speculatively. He was still a handsome devil. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Well, now, I won’t say no to that.’
She locked the shop door and led him upstairs. A small fire burned in the grate for cooking, and she put the kettle on to boil.
She had had the shop for nearly four years, and it was a great success. She had made so much money that she had been obliged to open a bank account for the first time in her life. But what she liked most was the people. All day long they came in and went out, each one having a life full of joys and sorrows, and they shared their stories with her. She felt lonely only at night.
She said to Colin: ‘People thought you Irish would all go back home, but most of you stayed.’
‘I love Ireland, but it’s hard to make a living there. The government in London is not kind to the Irish.’
‘Nor to the English, unless they’re noblemen or rich businessmen. Prime ministers run things for the benefit of people of their own ilk.’
‘That’s God’s own truth.’
She made the tea, gave him a cup, and offered sugar. He drank some and said: ‘This is very good. Funny how tea tastes better when someone else has made it.’
‘You miss your wife.’
‘I certainly do. And you?’
‘The same. My Jarge had his faults, but I loved him.’
There was silence for a minute or two, then he put down his cup and said: ‘I’d better be going.’
Sal hesitated. I’m fifty years old, she thought; I can’t do this. But she said: ‘You don’t have to go.’ Then she held her breath.
‘I don’t?’
‘You can stay if you want.’
