“But then the ould fella was harmless,” Grace goes on. “And he’d his family keeping him, didn’t he? He’d at least some reason for staying on. It’s what’s himself still doing here is what I can’t make out. No kin. No ties. Just that big old Manor house and, between you and me, it falling away between his fingertips.”
          “Is that so, now, Grace? On whose authority have you that? I did hear something of the sort, alright. But then d’you know I’ve never been up in the inside of it? Would you believe that? In all these years, I’ve never set foot... Still, it looks to be standing up straight enough from what I can see of it, between the trees. And aren’t there more houses than his falling apart in this blessed county of ours?”
          “Aye there are I suppose,” says Grace. “But then the rest of us have families within these houses to keep. Generations of them. Part of the bricks they are now, part of the land.”
          “Well, I wasn’t exactly talking about your house now,” says Blackie. “There’s no fear of you going homeless anyway…”
          He stops. A moment passes while there’s nothing at all to say.
          “I wonder where they came out with that, though,” Blackie goes on. “Calling them ‘Big Houses.’ It’s a bit rich of them now, isn’t it, if they’re the first to fall apart?”
          “English craftsmanship,” says Grace.
          “And isn’t it funny,” says Blackie, “the Whelans’ House out in Bawn is as big as the biggest of ‘em?”
          “The Whelans’ is a fine home,” says Grace, very grave now, not laughing anymore. “All laid out for the neighbours to see – not a tree blocking things from view. They’ve nothing to hide from the people around them, I can tell you. But then Whelan is a church-going man. Did it all himself. Put the money aside even when the rest of us was starving. Cute as a fox now, Whelan was, always.”
          He folds his arms, affirming with his body what his mind’s long since already decided.
          “But there’s something up,” says Blackie, unable to hold it in, “when a man can put aside what others around him are hungering after, surely.”
          Grace grunts. “But there’ll always be someone hungering, Blackie. Someone not able to stand on their own two feet. And have we always to be helping them up?”
          Blackie says nothing. The heat and the whiskey now have him red around the cheeks. As he passes O’Dwyer puts in a word.
          “It’s a fierce storm cutting out there ye know, lads?”
          “Is it, now?” Blackie asks. “Is it really?”
          A patch of quiet follows.
          “And did you sell many yourself today, then, Frank?” says Blackie. Resolute to keep the spirits up.
          “Ah the usual. The usual. I’m not a man to brag.”
          “And Morris? And Doherty I saw was there?”
          Grace nods, says nothing.
          “And what about – himself?”
          As if waiting for just this Grace snorts, spits; but he doesn’t answer right away. He takes another swig, the glass closing on empty.
          A draught in the chimney moans: a sudden burst of wind. The fire gets big for a second, blows up as if the bellows were pressed. Then the fire shrinks.

2

  

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