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 NUMBER ONE BESTSELLER *

ROISIN MEANEY
The Things We Do For Love
Roisin Meaney was born in Listowel, County Kerry and has lived
in the US, Canada, Africa and Europe. She is currently based in
Limerick.

Visit Roisin on her website www.roisinmeaney.com

Also by Roisin Meaney

The Daisy Picker

Putting Out the Stars
The Last Week of May
The People Next Door
Half Seven on a Thursday
Love in the Making

Children’s Books
Don’t Even Think About It
See If I Care
The Things We
Do For
Love

Roisin Meaney

HACHETTE
BOOKS
IRELAND
 Copyright © 2011 Roisin Meaney

First published in 2011 by Hachette Books Ireland

A Hachette UK Company

The right of Roisin Meaney to be identified as the Author of the Work has
been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in

a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the
prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any
form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and with¬
out a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 1 444 70679 6

Typeset in Bembo by Hachette Books Ireland

Cover design by Anu Design, Tara
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD

Hachette Books Ireland policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable
and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests.
The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the
environmental regulations of the country of origin.

Hachette Books Ireland

8 Castlecourt Centre
Castleknock
Dublin 15
Ireland

www.hachette.ie

A division of Hachette UK
338 Euston Road, London NW1 3BH
England
For Ben: small but perfectly formed
Three unconnected events took place on the morning of 21
September, which fell that year on a Friday. The people
involved in each incident were not known to one another at the
time, although the triangle their houses formed was less than
halt a square mile in area — most of which was taken up by
Carrickbawn's modest but beautifully designed public park —
and all three were fated to meet that very evening.
The first event occurred just after twenty past eight, when
Anne Curran came out from her kitchen and saw a long white
envelope lying on the hall carpet. She bent to retrieve it, noting
the handwriting on the front before turning it over to slide a
finger under the flap and draw out the single slip of paper. She
regarded it for some time, her face expressionless. She checked
the envelope, but it held nothing more. Eventually she pressed
a button on the answering machine that sat next to the phone
on the hall table, and listened to a message that was more than
two months old, eyes still fixed on the slip she held.
When the machine clicked off she remained standing in the
hall until the increasingly frantic whistle of the kettle caused her
to slide the cheque slowly back into its envelope. Before
returning to the kitchen she set the envelope on a stack of
phone directories, taking some time to ensure that it was posi¬
tioned exactly in the centre.
Some minutes later, in the driveway outside Irene and Martin
Dillon's red-brick detached home, Irene clipped the passenger
wing of her Peugeot against the gatepost as she swung out too
quickly, causing a small but definite dent in the metal, and
leaving flakes of dark green paint embedded in the nubby con¬
crete of the post. Feeling the thud of the contact, Irene swore
loudly but didn't get out to inspect the damage, deciding
instead to make straight for the dental appointment she'd almost
forgotten, and deal with the car later.

1
 Roisin Meaney

The third incident took place as Audrey Matthews made her

way on foot to Carrickbawn Secondary School, her normal
mode of transport being out of commission in the motorcycle
repair shop. The morning was fine, and Audrey strolled along
humming a tune she'd heard on the radio, halfway through her
second bowl of Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes. With each step she
took, the green canvas bag slung across her body bumped gently
against her well-padded hip, and she glanced now and again
into the windows of the various shops that lined her route.
And entirely without warning, halfway along a short pedes¬
trianised lane connecting Carrickbawn's two main thorough¬
fares, thirty-seven-year-old Audrey saw something that made
her fall abruptly and profoundly in love. Her heart stopped —
everything stopped - for a delicious scattering of seconds. And
when it could move again her pink, lip-glossed mouth formed
a soft O of complete adoration.
She approached the shop window and pressed her palms and
nose to the cold glass. Her wide, wide smile caused the tiny
ragged tail of the tousle-haired brown and black pup in a pet
carrier inside to wag vigorously as it stood on quivering hind
legs and braced itself against the grille, and yapped soundlessly
at her.
Three separate events, three different settings, three strangers.
But for all that, the consequences of these incidents would be
far-reaching, and more lives than theirs would be affected
within a handful of weeks.
Listen.

2
 The First Week: 21-27 September

A new evening class, a welcome discovery, an important purchase

and a disturbing encounter
 Friday

‘May God protect the king,’ the beautiful man declared, smiling
warmly.
On the point of making its first mark, Audrey’s biro stilled.
‘Pardon?’ Returning his smile with a politely enquiring one.
‘Is my name,’ he told her. ‘English meaning of Belshazzar.’
‘Belshazzar? But I thought you said your name was . . .’ She
suddenly couldn’t remember the impossibly foreign-sounding
word she’d been about to write.
‘Zarek.’ He nodded. ‘Is short name of Belshazzar.’
‘Ah.’ Audrey positioned her biro a second time. ‘And that’s
Z-A . . . ?’
She wondered if anyone else was going to turn up. It hadn’t
occurred to her that she mightn’t fill the class: she’d just assumed
enough adult inhabitants of Carrickbawn would be interested
in life drawing. But she’d been sitting alone for nearly forty
minutes in Room Six, becoming steadily less confident, before
anyone had appeared.
Forty minutes out of sixty, which left just twenty. What if this
impossibly handsome young man was it? One person’s payment
wouldn’t cover the model’s fee, let alone Audrey’s time. And
could you even hold a class with just one student?
 The Things We Do For Love

Still, as long as he was here, she’d better register him. ‘And

your surname?’
He looked blankly at her with those wonderful eyes. She
pulled herself out of them with an effort. ‘Your last name?’
‘Olszewski.’ He eyed her unmoving biro. ‘Is better if I write?’
She slid the form across. ‘Much better.’
Polish, he’d told her. In Ireland since May. Eyes as blue as Paul
Newman’s - and the length of those lashes. A real heartbreaker
of a face. She guessed mid-twenties - too young, sadly. Not that
he’d be interested in Audrey in a million years, not when he
could pick and choose from the young ones of Carrickbawn.
Not that her reason for giving the class was to find a
boyfriend; of course it wasn’t. Still, you wouldn’t rule it out.
You’d never rule it out. He could be anywhere.
‘Is this the still-life drawing class?’
A couple stood in the doorway. Sixties, possibly older. The
man wore a grey baseball cap and held a supermarket shopping
bag from which a long cardboard container protruded - tinfoil?
Greaseproof paper? The woman stared openly at Zarek, a look
of profound distrust on her face.
‘Actually,’ Audrey said, ‘it’s not still-life, it’s life drawing.’
The woman’s forehead puckered. ‘Is that not the same thing?’
‘No.’ Audrey hesitated, wondering how gently she could
break it. ‘Life drawing is . . . drawing a human body.’
They considered this in silence.
‘Would that be a real person?’ the man asked eventually.
‘Exactly,’ Audrey said. She had to tell them: she couldn’t
let them arrive on the first night not knowing. She crossed the
fingers of the hand they couldn’t see. ‘A nude person, in fact.’
Another dead silence, during which the colour rose slowly
and deeply in the woman’s face. Audrey wondered if Zarek,
who didn’t seem to be paying too much attention, understood
the significance of the conversation.
‘Well,’ the man spluttered, ‘I think you ought to be heartily
ashamed of yourself, young lady.’

5
 Roisin Meaney

‘Disgusting,’ his companion added vehemendy, her face still

aflame. ‘Bringing that sort of thing to Carrickbawn. Have you
no shame?’
Audrey considered pointing out that the nude body had been
drawn and painted by great artists for centuries, but decided
that such an approach would probably not help right now. She
opted instead for a contrite and downcast expression.
Another few seconds of silent outrage followed. Audrey kept
her gaze lowered. Were they going to stand there all evening?
What if more potential students turned up?
‘You haven’t heard the last of this,’ the man said then, and to
Audrey’s great relief they gathered themselves up and left with
a series of outraged tuts. As the sound of their footsteps faded
she turned back to Zarek, but his head was still bent over his
form. Just as well.
She should have made it clearer: she shouldn’t have assumed
that people understood what life drawing was. Come to think
of it, confusing it with still-life was perfectly understandable.
And of course some people would balk at the idea of a nude
model; she should have anticipated that.
As she was wondering if it was too late to display a clarifica¬
tion notice somewhere — maybe on the wall outside the class¬
room — another woman appeared in the doorway and stood
there uncertainly.
Audrey smiled encouragingly at her. ‘Hello — are you here for
the life drawing?’
Still a good quarter of an hour to go, and here was her second
potential student. If just four more turned up Audrey would
have a respectable class. Six was fine, wasn’t it? Five even, at a
pinch. So what if she took home a little less than she’d hoped?
It was only money, and she’d never been a big spender.
The woman approached the desk. Audrey’s own age, or a bit
younger, early thirties maybe. Faint shadows under her brown
eyes, skin that lovely creamy olive shade that you seldom saw on

6
 The Things We Do For Love

Irish faces. Not a freckle to be found, no sign of a broken vein.

No makeup that Audrey could see, not even lipstick. Tailored
navy jacket that had probably cost a bit, the classic piece you
were supposed to invest in and have for years. The sort of fitted
cut that Audrey ran a mile from.
‘I’ve never done it before,’ the woman said. ‘Not any kind of
art, not since school.' No answering smile on her face, an arm
clamping the strap of her dark grey shoulder bag firmly to her
side. A quick-as-lightning glance flicked from Audrey to Zarek
and back again.
‘That’s no problem,’ Audrey replied. ‘It’s a beginner class, so
the pace will be very relaxed.’ Should she mention the nudity?
Would it sound condescending though? Maybe she’d take a
chance that it was understood. Hopefully the previous couple
had been the exception.
‘Have you had others in already?’ The woman reached up
quickly to tuck her shoulder-length bob behind her ear. ‘It’s just
that I was . . . expecting to meet someone here.’ She looked
ready to bolt. ‘Meg Curran? Has she been in?’
Another potential student, who may or may not turn up.
Audrey thought quickly. ‘Not as yet, no, but there’s plenty of
time.’ She slid a registration form across the desk. ‘Why don’t
you fill one of these out while you’re waiting?’
The woman made no attempt to take the form, didn’t even
look at it. ‘Actually, I’m not really—’
At that moment, Zarek thrust his hand towards her, beaming.
‘I am Zarek Olszewski. I am from Poland. Please to meet you.
You do this class too, yes?’
Had he sensed her reluctance? Was he trying to encourage
her to stay? Or was he simply being friendly? Audrey had no
idea - but she was intensely grateful, because the other woman
really had no choice but to respond.
Her smile was fleeting as she made brief contact with his
hand. ‘Anne,’ she said, ‘but I’m not quite sure—’

7
 Roisin Meaney

‘And I’m Audrey. I’ll be teaching the class,’ Audrey broke in.
‘Why don’t you give your friend a few minutes? You’ve taken
the trouble to come here — you might as well hang on.’ She
hoped she didn’t sound too desperate.
Anne cast a doubtful look about the empty classroom. ‘I sup¬
pose I could wait a bit . . .’
‘And you may as well fill in a form — it won’t commit you to
anything if you change your mind,’ Audrey went on brightly.
‘Biro?’
‘No, thank you — I have my own.’ Anne rummaged in the
grey bag and drew out a long narrow box, from which she took
what looked to Audrey like a very expensive gold pen. She
unscrewed the cap and bent to study the typed form.
Her parting was meticulous, not a hair out of place. No ring
on her wedding finger — no ring anywhere. She held the pen in
her left hand, its gold nib seeming to follow rather than lead the
words across the page. Bitten nails, which Audrey hadn’t
expected, polished a pale cream.
‘Please.’ Zarek laid down his biro and offered his form to
Audrey. ‘I finish.’
‘Anne?’
All three turned and watched two more women walking in,
one dark, the other a redhead, both somewhere around thirty.
Similarly dressed in jeans and cotton shirts, pastel-coloured
canvas pumps on one pair of feet, navy runners on the other.
‘You came.’ The taller of the two women beamed at Anne.
‘You changed your mind - I’m delighted.’
Anne nodded. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you were coming.’
‘Oh yes, just a bit late, as usual.’ She indicated her companion.
‘You know Fiona, who I taught with?’
‘I think we’ve met,’ the redhead said. ‘You’re Henry’s sister,
right?’
Audrey waited for the exchange to finish. Two more. She
was up to four, and still almost ten minutes to go. She might just
make the six.

8
 The Things We Do For Love

The women turned towards her eventually. ‘Sorry,’ the tall

one said. ‘We’re here for the class, obviously.’
‘We’re total beginners,’ the other added, her gaze skidding
briefly towards Zarek. ‘Not a clue, either of us. Can’t draw a
straight line.’
‘Actually,’ Audrey said, ‘most people can’t — draw a straight
line, I mean. It’s one of the hardest things to achieve.’ She passed
two registration forms across the desk. ‘Fortunately, the human
body has no straight lines at all, so we should be fine.’
'Well, that’s good to know.’ The tall woman took the forms
and passed one to her companion.
‘And it’s a beginner class,’ Audrey went on, ‘so you needn’t
worry - everyone’s in the same boat. I’m Audrey Matthews,’ she
added. ‘The teacher.’
‘Meg Butler,’ the tall woman said, ‘and Fiona Gray. And . . . ?’
She looked enquiringly at Zarek. Both of them looked very
enquiring indeed.
‘I am Zarek Olszewski,’ he said, thrusting a hand towards
them. ‘I am from Poland. Please to meet you.’
‘Oh — I went to Auschwitz last summer,’ Fiona exclaimed,
and immediately went pink. ‘Very sad,’ she added quickly,
ducking her head towards her form.
Audrey provided biros and did some rapid mental calcula¬
tions. With only four students she wouldn’t even take the min¬
imum wage home. In fact, the model would probably earn
more than the teacher. Audrey wasn’t that bothered about what
she earned, but all the same, there had to be some kind of lower
limit, didn’t there?
‘Please.’
With dismay she saw that Zarek had produced a wallet and
was looking questioningly at her.
‘Class is ninety euro, yes?’
‘Er—’
‘I’m not late, am I?’
Everyone turned. The woman unravelled a long narrow

9
 Roisin Meaney

silver-grey scarf as she walked past the rows of tables towards the
front of the room. ‘This is life drawing, yes?’
‘Yes, it is, yes.’ Audrey beamed. ‘And no, you’re not late at all.’
‘Good.’ As she approached the desk the woman slung her scarf
over the back of a chair. ‘I’ve been running to catch up since this
morning.’ Her musky scent was cloying, her blonde hair beauti¬
fully, perfectly cut. Her voice was throaty, the voice of a theatre
actor. She took the form Audrey held out. ‘I’ve never done it
before — life drawing, I mean. That’s with a live model, yes?’
‘Yes,’ Audrey told her, relieved that the clarification had been
made in front of everyone. ‘We’ll be working with a live nude
model.’ She waited for a reaction.
‘Good,’ the blonde repeated. ‘Should be fun. Does it matter
that I’m a total beginner?’
‘Not at all,’ Audrey assured her. ‘Everyone’s a beginner.’
‘We are all in the same ship,’ Zarek told her cheerfully.
The woman looked at him with amused interest.
‘I am Zarek Olszewski.’ He stuck out his hand again. ‘I am
from Poland.’
She laughed. ‘You don’t say.’ She let her hand linger in his,
which of course they all noticed. ‘Irene Dillon,’ she added.
As the other names were exchanged Audrey studied the new¬
comer. She wore a sage green leather skirt that stopped long
before her knees began, and patent black shoes, whose heels
would have given Audrey vertigo. Older than the others, close
to forty maybe, but looking after herself.
Audrey handed her a registration form and began distributing
the materials list to the others. ‘As you know,’ she said, ‘it’s
a drawing class, so your requirements are relatively few, and
while you could stick to pencils, I thought charcoal would be a
nice—’
‘Excuse me.’
She stopped. A man had appeared at the door, his head cov¬
ered in a black woolly hat. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, in a soft
Northern accent. ‘I don’t know if you’re full, or . . .’

10
 The Things We Do For Love

★★★

He took in the handful of people — the foreign-looking man

with the pretty-boy face and the four women, the largest of
whom seemed to be in charge. He thought this was probably a
mistake: what did he know about life drawing — what interest
had he ever had in drawing anything?
He’d wanted to enrol in Intermediate French, to back up the
CDs he’d taken out from the library the previous week, and
which were already helping to resurrect the words and phrases
of his schooldays. He wanted to bring Charlie to France next
summer, so she could start learning it too — at her age, she’d
soak it up. He hadn’t ruled out moving to France at some stage,
if Ireland proved too small for them to remain here.
But according to the handwritten message pinned to the
notice-board in the college’s reception area, Intermediate
French had been cancelled because the tutor was ill. ‘Can’t you
get someone else?’ he’d asked the man behind the glassed-in
cubicle, but the man had apologised and said he was just the
janitor; he had no information about tutors. So James had
returned to the notice-board and studied the other Tuesday-
evening options. They hadn’t been inspiring.
Computer programming, Pilates or life drawing. Not one of
these remotely appealed to him. He used a computer at work,
hated it — who would have thought an estate agent would have
to spend so long on a damn computer? — and he had no inten¬
tion of having anything to do with them in his spare time.
He had a vague idea that Pilates involved stretching out on a
mat and doing exercises of some sort, which approximated
pretty much to his idea of hell. Rowing was the only exercise
he’d ever taken any pleasure from, and that was firmly in his past
now.
Of the three choices that were being offered, life drawing
seemed the least offensive. He had endured more than enjoyed
trying to reproduce the collections of objects his art teach¬
ers had assembled at school — but he supposed this might be

11
 Roisin Meaney

different. Life drawing was people, wasn’t it? And, anyway, who
cared if he failed miserably? He certainly didn’t.
He had to choose one of the Tuesday classes, because Tuesday
was the only evening he could make his escape, and he needed
an escape, so life drawing it was. He’d noted the room where
the enrolment was taking place, and made his way there.
And now, having drawn attention to himself, having walked
into the room and interrupted the proceedings, he was
becoming more and more convinced that he’d made a colossal
mistake.
What had he been thinking? Who said he had to sign up for
any evening class at all? Couldn’t he sit in a pub for a few hours,
or go to the cinema, if he wanted a break from home once a
week?
As he opened his mouth to say thanks, but he’d changed his
mind, the large woman beamed at him. ‘No, we’re not full,’ she
said. ‘You’re very welcome. Do come in.’ She took a step
towards him, putting out her hand. ‘I’m Audrey Matthews, and
I’ll be teaching the class.’
She looked so genuinely happy to see him that he found
himself ridiculously unable to disappoint her. He stepped for¬
ward, his heart sinking. ‘James Sullivan,’ he said. The name felt
odd, but he’d get used to it.

★★★

What possessed me? Anne Curran wondered. What was I

thinking?
But of course she hadn’t been thinking: she’d been looking
for something, anything, to stop her thinking — and suddenly
the life-drawing classes that Meg had been going on about had
seemed like the ideal distraction. So instead of going home after
work she’d completed The Irish Times crossword in the little
room where hotel employees took their breaks, and then she’d
taken the long way round to Carrickbawn Senior College.
The trouble was, she realised now, that all she’d done was

12
 The Things We Do For Love

postpone the inevitable. She was down ninety euro and she still
had to face up to the ugly truth that had been sitting on her
phone table all day long. The cheque that told her, more force¬
fully than any legal document, that she was no longer half of a
married couple. The money that was going to arrive every
month from now on, whether she wanted it or not.
She didn’t want it. She didn’t want his money. What was he
doing only salving his guilty conscience, telling himself he was
making up for walking out on her by keeping her solvent. He
was paying her off so she’d leave him and his new woman alone.
The truth, the horrible truth, was that she didn’t want his
money: she wanted him. It was shameful how much she still
wanted him.
And the other horrible truth was that, however much she
might want to tear up his cheques, she couldn’t manage the
mortgage repayments on her own. Even if she did all the
overtime she could get, she still couldn’t afford the house by
herself.
She’d waited with dread for the first cheque to arrive, and this
morning there it was. No covering note, no word at all. And
though she’d been expecting it, its arrival - his handwriting, his
signature, the whole heartbreakingly businesslike feel of it — had
knocked her sideways, had caused her to act completely out of
character, to skitter away from her normal routine and sign up
for a class she couldn’t have cared less about.
She hadn’t even known what life drawing was until a week
ago, when Meg had told her. She’d thought it was arrangements
of apples and dead pheasants.
This was going to be penance.

★★★

This was going to be a laugh. Irene signed the registration form

with a flourish. Talk about eye candy, when all she’d come for
was a bit of fun, something different to do on a Tuesday night.
Pity the Pole wasn’t stripping off for them - now that would

13
 Roisin Meaney

have been interesting. Bet he had some body under that black
T-shirt and those faded chinos.
All in all, today had shaped up pretty well. Not that she’d
fancy driving into the gatepost every morning, but that little
mishap had turned out to have its up-side.
‘Not too bad,’ the mechanic had said, running his hand along
the dent. Oil under his nails. Short, broad fingers. ‘Not too
deep. Could be worse.’
The sleeves of his overalls pushed up past his elbows, showing
arms covered with dark hair and taut muscles. Probably didn’t
need to work out - plenty of stretching and weightlifting with
his job.
‘You’ll have to leave it with us,’ he’d said.
Irene had stood close enough to let him get her perfume.
Men went mad for musk. ‘How long?’
He’d leant against the car, arms folded. Brown eyes. A head
of dark hair, cut short the way she liked it. The kind of skin that
went black in the sun. ‘Thursday at least — we’re busy right now.
Give us a call Thursday morning.’
‘You couldn’t do it any quicker?’ she’d asked, a hand reaching
up to touch his arm oh-so-briefly. ‘It’s just that I use it a lot for
work.’ Hard muscle, not an ounce of fat there. ‘I wouldn’t ask,’
she’d said, flashing her newly cleaned teeth at him, ‘only it’s
really awkward being without it.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he’d said. ‘Give us a call Tuesday.’

★★★

Meg wrote ‘ninety euro on her cheque and signed it. She was
looking forward to the classes. She was no artist, but she’d
always enjoyed drawing and painting at school. She’d also loved
the relaxed atmosphere of the art room - and, God knew, she
could do with a bit of relaxation at the moment. Life had never
been as hectic as it had been in the last three weeks, and so far
it showed no sign of abating. Surely these classes would be laid
back, and not too challenging.

14
 The Things We Do For Love

She d been delighted to see Anne here too — her sister-in-law

could certainly do with a distraction right now. Bring her out
of herself a bit, help her to forget her troubles. Because the
sooner Anne put her marriage break-up behind her, the sooner
she’d be back to her old dependable self, the one Meg and
Henry turned to any time they needed help. So capable, so
strong, you’d forget sometimes she was Henry’s younger sister.
Meg tore off her cheque and handed it to the teacher, whose
bright blue blouse with its tiny pink polka dots clashed alarm¬
ingly with her turquoise flowery skirt - and was that her yellow
jacket slung over the back of that chair?
Must be very liberating though, not to give a damn what you
looked like.

★★★

On the whole, Zarek Olszewski was quite happy in Ireland. He

accepted that the erratic weather system was the price to pay for
living on a tiny island on the edge of a huge ocean. He’d grown
accustomed to cars travelling on the wrong side of the road, and
after four and a half months he’d learnt — just about — to live
without his mother’s spicy dumplings and sauerkraut soup.
He shared a small flat with two other immigrants, one of
whom produced dinner each evening in return for ignoring
every other household chore, an arrangement that suited all
three perfectly.
Zarek worked behind the counter in one of Carrickbawn’s
fast-food outlets. His salary was modest, but his expenses were
few. By shopping almost exclusively at Lidl, and avoiding the
pubs and restaurants, he managed to send a small monthly bank
draft to his parents in Poland, and squirrelled away what little
was left towards his eventual return home.
One of his minor extravagances was a two-euro scratchcard
every Saturday on his way home from work. By the end of
August he’d claimed two free cards and had won four euro
enough times to keep up the practice, but when he revealed two

15
 Roisin Meaney

hundred and fifty euro three times on the first scratchcard of

September, it had taken him several seconds to believe his luck.
He decided to send the entire amount to his parents — what
did he need it for? - but before he had a chance to get to the
bank, Carrickbawn Senior College’s schedule of evening classes
had caught his eye on the back page of the free local paper — he
struggled through it each week in an effort to improve his
English. Life drawing, he’d read, and his dictionary had con¬
firmed that it was what he thought it was, and the lure had
proved irresistible.
A hundred and sixty euro would be a perfectly respectable
windfall. His mother would fill the freezer, his father could get
a new suit, or winter coat. They’d be perfectly happy with a
hundred and sixty.
Zarek read the materials list and wondered what a putty
rubber was.

Six classes, Fiona read on the registration form. Six weeks of

classes, which would bring them up to the end of October. She
wondered if she’d look any different in six weeks.
She reminded herself again not to count her chickens. She
could be wrong — it might be no more than wishful thinking.
But what if she was right? The possibility was delightful.
‘Where’s your cheque? You’re miles away,’ Meg said beside her.
‘Sorry.’
Monday she’d find out for sure. She’d buy the test tomorrow
and wait till Monday morning to do it, when Des had left for
work. She’d make herself wait till then, even though she could
easily do it on Sunday morning without him knowing. But she
wanted to prolong the not-knowing for a bit, in case the result
was a disappointment.
She pulled her cheque book out of her bag and opened it.
‘How much is it again?’ she asked, and Meg sighed.

★★★

16
 The Things We Do For Love

Audrey bundled the six registration forms together and slipped

them into her canvas bag. She tucked cheques and cash carefully
into the side pocket and zipped it closed. She took her yellow
jacket from the back of the chair, slid her arms into it and fas¬
tened the red toggles.
She locked the classroom door and returned the key to
Vincent at the reception desk, who told her that two people
had asked him to lodge a formal complaint about the naked
drawing classes to the college authorities.
‘Lord,’ said Audrey, alarmed. ‘What should I do?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Some old people just love to have a
moan.’ Vincent was seventy-five if he was a day. ‘If they come
back I’ll say someone is looking into it. See you Tuesday.’
Outside, Audrey unlocked her moped, placed her bag in the
front basket and puttered down the short driveway of
Carrickbawn Senior College. Six people signed up, six cheques
paid over — no, five. Zarek had paid in cash. Nice to have a non-
Irish student in the class, made it feel quite cosmopolitan. After
several months in Ireland, Zarek’s command of English was still
a little precarious. She wondered how much contact he had
with Irish people in the course of his day.
What did he do to earn a living? What did any of them do,
these six strangers who’d opted to spend two hours a week in
each other’s company from now till Hallowe’en? No doubt
she’d find out in due course.
Interesting to see how the dynamics would go, to see who’d
get along, who’d have nothing in common. Would the women
stick together? Would there be personality clashes? Would any
attractions surface?
She stopped. Listen to her, creating drama where there was
none. Why wouldn’t they all get along, a group of adults
sharing a common interest, spending a couple of relaxing hours
together each week, no pressure to be anything else but amiable
companions?

17
 Roisin Meaney

They might even get quite chummy. There might be a call

for an advanced life-drawing class after , Hallowe’en - if they
hadn’t been run out of town by the scandalised couple.
And purely as an observation, with no hidden agenda what¬
soever, James Sullivan had a beautiful soft Northern accent, and
wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. And looked to be about
Audrey’s age.
Of course, there was still the problem of a model — or, rather,
of no model. Audrey knew she should be more concerned
about the fact that, three days before the first life-drawing class,
there had still been no response to the ad she’d posted two
weeks before on the notice-board in Carrickbawn’s art-supplies
shop. Happily, it wasn’t in her nature to worry unduly.
Something would turn up, she was sure of it. Someone would
see the ad very soon — maybe even tomorrow — and they would
be just right.
And if that didn’t happen, she could always call on Terence,
who taught science at Carrickbawn Secondary School, and
who’d been a little too eager to offer his services as soon as he’d
heard about the classes. Terence wouldn’t have been Audrey’s
first choice, but he’d do at a pinch as long as she kept an eye on
him.
She motored unhurriedly along the early-evening streets, still
quite bright at eight o’clock. The thought of the winter months
ahead didn’t bother her. Winter brought big coal fires and bowls
of steaming soup to dip soft floury rolls into — not to mention
the occasional hot whiskey when she came home wet through
and frozen to the bone. She preferred winter food, had never
been a big fan of salads. Leaves were so, well, leafy. Nothing to
get your teeth into. Nothing to make you feel nice and full.
And this winter, she remembered with sudden delight, if all
went according to plan, there would be two of them sitting in
front of the fire. She considered making a detour just to have
another look at him, but decided against it. At least twenty

18
 The Things We Do For Love

minutes there and back — and, anyway, he was probably taken

from the shop window and brought somewhere else at night.
She increased her pressure slightly on the accelerator, causing
her flowered skirt to billow out. She was starving, having eaten
nothing since a tomato sandwich at four, and a Denny steak and
kidney pie was waiting at home. She loved steak and kidney pie,
and the tins were so handy, ready in no time.
She’d go there first thing in the morning and get him, straight
after her rashers and sausages. And maybe a bit of white pudding.

19
 Saturday

‘How much is the doggie in the window?’ Audrey tried to keep

a straight face, and failed completely.
The man behind the counter didn’t appear to see the joke.
He studied Audrey over his steel-rimmed glasses. ‘You want to
buy the pup?’
Audrey’s smile dimmed a little. No doubt he’d heard the line
before, but it cost nothing to be pleasant. Thank goodness she’d
decided against singing it - she’d feel even more foolish now.
But she had no intention of letting one cranky man disturb her
Saturday-morning good humour.
‘Yes, I’d like to buy the pup,’ she said, keeping her tone deter¬
minedly friendly. ‘He’s adorable - I’ve fallen totally in love with
him.’
As soon as the words were out, it occurred to her that
expressing such a sentiment might well hike up the dog’s price.
Like raving over a house you went to view so the estate agent
knew you’d pay as much as you could possibly part with. Ah,
well, nothing to be done now.
The man continued to regard her as if she were a slightly irri¬
tating disturbance to his day. ‘He’s a she,’ he said flatly, ‘and she’s
fifty euro.’

20
 The Things We Do For Love

Audrey’s mouth dropped open. She’d been prepared for

twenty, thirty at a push. ‘But isn’t he - she - a mongrel?’ she
asked. ‘I mean, she’s gorgeous, but she’s not a . . . thoroughbred,
is she? I mean, she doesn’t look—’
‘Fifty,’ he repeated, lowering his head again to the newspaper
that was spread open on the counter. ‘Take it or leave it.’ He
turned a page.
Audrey stood before him, her earlier cheeriness fading rap¬
idly. Was he simply going to ignore her, just read his paper and
pretend she wasn’t there? How rude. She prickled with annoy¬
ance. She should turn and walk out.
Only, of course, she couldn’t.
She crossed to the window and crouched by the carrier. The
little pup began a frantic yapping at her approach, tiny tail wag¬
ging furiously, her whole rear end getting involved. A small
pink tongue darted at the fingers Audrey poked through the
grille. ‘Hello, sweetie,’ she said softly. The little animal’s excited
yaps changed abruptly to high-pitched whines. Audrey yearned
to open the carrier and gather the dog into her arms, but
decided against it. Who knew how the disagreeable shop assis¬
tant might react?
She returned to the counter. The man continued to read his
paper. Audrey determined to stand there until he did some¬
thing. He couldn’t ignore her forever. Finally he raised his head
and regarded her silently.
‘I’ll take her,’ Audrey said curtly, opening her bag. ‘Have you
got a box?’
‘Box?’
She was tempted to say, You know, a container with four
sides and a top, usually made of cardboard. Really, his manner
was appalling - but she wasn’t going to stoop to his level. She
was going to remain polite if it killed her. ‘To bring her home
in,’ she replied evenly. ‘I’ll need some kind of box.’ Probably
charge her for that too.

21
 Roisin Meaney

He closed his newspaper without another word and disap¬

peared through the rear door. Audrey was quite sure she was
being overcharged — surely they gave mongrels away for nothing
at any cats’ and dogs’ home - but what could she do? She’d
fallen for this dog, and no other one would do.
A minute went by. She scanned the nearby shelves and saw
tins of pet food and bird-feeders and bags of peanuts and cat and
dog toys. Maybe he liked animals more than humans; maybe
that was why he worked in a pet shop. She selected two small
cans of puppy food — just enough to keep her going until she
got to the supermarket — and brought them to the counter.
She returned to the little dog, which set up a fresh burst of
yapping at her approach. She lifted the carrier, which was sur¬
prisingly light, and held it up so she and the dog were eye to
eye. ‘You’re coming home with me,’ Audrey told her. ‘I’m
taking you away from that horrible grumpy man.’
‘I haven’t got a box.’
She whirled, almost dropping her load. Had he heard? He
must have. Impossible to tell from his expression, which had
been dour since she’d arrived.
‘You can borrow the carrier,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll need it back
on Monday.’
‘Thank you,’ Audrey said coolly. ‘May I ask how old she is?’
He shrugged. ‘Twelve weeks, give or take.’
Give or take what? Another month? Audrey gritted her teeth
and waited while he scanned the tins of puppy food.
He took her money without comment. He’d probably never
heard of please or thank you, but she made a point of thanking
him as he handed over her change. At least one of them had
manners.
To her surprise, he walked ahead of her and held the door
open. She nodded stiffly at him as she left, already dreading the
thought of her return visit with his carrier. She’d drop it and
leave before he had time to annoy her.
The problem was, he had the only pet shop in Carrickbawn,

22
 The Things We Do For Love

so she wouldn’t have much choice if the supermarkets didn’t

stock whatever she had to buy for her new pet.
Not that she was at all sure what she had to buy. There’d
never been a dog or a cat in the house when Audrey was
growing up. Neither of her parents had relished the idea of an
animal around the place. She’d bought the pup on impulse, and
hadn’t the first notion of how to look after it. She’d have to get
a book — or, better still, visit the vet as soon as she could. Surely
he’d answer any questions she might have. Yes, she’d make an
appointment first thing on Monday.
In the meantime she had to come up with a name. She’d
been considering Bingo, but that was when she’d assumed the
pup was male, so she’d need to think again. Something nice and
feminine.
And it would sleep in the kitchen — that alcove beside the
stove would be perfect if she transferred the log basket to
behind the back door. She’d have to get a little bed, one of
those nice furry ones. And a leash for walks, and her own pet
carrier. The vet might sell things like that: she mightn’t have to
depend on the supermarkets.
And a dish for food. She could use her empty steak and
kidney tin from last night until she got a proper one. Lots of
things to think of, but where was the hurry? She raised the car¬
rier until she and her new pet were eye to eye.
‘I’m Audrey,’ she said, and the little dog yapped back.
She lowered the carrier and turned onto her road, her good
humour fully restored, humming ‘How Much Is That Doggie
In The Window?’

★★★

‘I got a cheque yesterday,’ Anne said, as soon as the waitress had

left. ‘From Tom.’
‘Did you?’ Meg looked at her with concern. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ She wasn’t, but how else could you answer that?
‘Henry’s glad you signed up for the life drawing,’ Meg said.

23
 Roisin Meaney

Anne could imagine the conversation, their joint relief that

she was coming out of herself. She’d have to stick with the
classes, if only to keep her brother and Meg happy. She cast
about for a change of subject. ‘How’s the playschool?’
Meg grimaced. ‘Still exhausting - but I’m coping, just about.’
‘Not sorry you gave up teaching?’
‘Not really. I didn’t realise this would be so intense, but I keep
reminding myself that I’m my own boss now, which is what I
wanted.’
‘Good.’
A beat passed. Meg pulled the cellophane off the little biscuit
that perched on her saucer. ‘So . . . was there a note in with it?’
‘No.’ Anne stared out of the window. ‘Just the cheque.’

So glum she looked. Meg searched for something consoling to

say, but before she could come up with anything, Anne turned
back to her. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘Annie—-’
‘I know, I know, I’m my own worst enemy. Just humour me,
OK?’
Meg stirred coffee that didn’t need stirring. ‘He came round
for dinner. It was Henry’s suggestion, I couldn’t—’
‘When?’
‘Last weekend. Look—’
‘I assume she was there too.’
What could Meg possibly say that she wanted to hear?
‘Annie, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’ But clearly, to judge by her sister-in-law’s closed
expression, it wasn’t OK. Anne pushed away her half-full cup
and rummaged in her bag. She drew out a little spray bottle and
applied it to her palms.
‘What’s that?’ Meg was relieved to have something else to
focus on.
‘Just a cleanser — my hands feel grubby sometimes.’

24
 The Things We Do For Love

Oh, could I have a bit? I’m still smelling of chlorine.’ Meg

took her little daughter swimming at Carrickbawn s public pool
on Saturday mornings. ‘Anne, I’d drop him in a minute,’ she
went on, working the cleanser into her hands. ‘You know I
would.’
‘But you can’t, can you?’ Anne smiled tightly, replacing the
bottle in her bag. ‘That’s what I get for marrying my brother’s
best friend.’
‘I hate having to be nice to him after what he did,’ Meg
insisted.
‘But you’re Henry’s wife, so you have to be,’ Anne said, get¬
ting to her feet. ‘Sorry, I have to go - I’m on at twelve.’ She
worked behind the reception desk in the largest of
Carrickbawn’s three hotels.
Meg watched her sister-in-law pulling on her jacket. ‘Can
you make brunch tomorrow?’
‘Afraid not. I’m working. See you at the art class on
Tuesday.’ And she was gone, pushing the cafe door open with
her elbow.
Left alone at the table, Meg sipped her coffee, feeling mildly
irritated. It was well over two months since Anne’s husband had
walked out — how long were they going to be tip-toeing around
her? Of course it was unfortunate that Anne’s ex happened to
be Henry’s best friend, but what could anyone do about that?
Meg had enough on her plate trying to get the playschool up
and running — it wasn’t fair that she should feel caught in the
middle between her husband and his sister, trying to keep them
both happy.
It was all Tom McFadden’s fault. He was the villain here.
He’d been friends with Henry forever, but he’d hardly noticed
Henry’s sister until she was almost twenty-two. He was twenty-
five and about to qualify as a doctor when he’d asked Anne out
for the first time.
Meg and Henry had recently got married, and Henry was
charmed at the idea of his friend and his sister finally getting

25
 Roisin Meaney

together. ‘She’s fancied him for years,’ he told Meg. ‘About time
he did something about it.’
Eight months into the relationship Anne had moved out of
home and into Tom’s apartment, to the silent disapproval of her
parents, and six months after that, much to their relief, Tom had
walked her down the aisle of Carrickbawn’s oldest church. The
house was bought the following year and as far as Meg could
see, they were as happy as any other married couple.
Until two months ago. After seven years of marriage, Tom
McFadden had fallen for a younger woman and moved out to
be with her, and not even his best friend Henry had seen it
coming. Characteristically, Anne had mourned his departure in
private, keeping her grief to herself, rebuffing all offers of help,
even from her beloved Henry. Cancelling her regular Saturday
morning coffee date with Meg, which they’d been keeping for
years. Making excuses not to come to them for Sunday brunch,
which had been another long-held tradition.
But last evening she’d signed up for the life-drawing classes,
and she’d agreed to meet this morning for coffee, and Meg was
trying to be hopeful that the worst was over. They could all move
on — except that Tom McFadden was still Henry’s best friend.
Meg was torn, but she could see no way out. She and Henry
had argued about it plenty of times, and she’d got nowhere.
‘He did the dirty on your sister - how can you still be friends
with him?’ she’d demanded more than once.
But Henry remained adamant. ‘Tom and I grew up together,
you know he’s been my best mate forever. Of course I’m not
happy with his behaviour—’
‘Not happy? You make it sound like he took your last Rolo.
He didn’t even tell you what he was planning.’
‘Well, he could hardly tell me, could he? Look, I don’t like
what he did, and of course he regrets hurting Annie—’
‘Big of him.’
‘—but what’s done is done, and me getting stroppy with him
won’t help Annie, you know that.’

26
 The Things We Do For Love

‘It would show her whose side you’re on.’

Tm not on anyone’s side. I’m not involved with what hap¬
pened between them.’
‘You’re her brother — of course you’re involved.’
‘And I’m Tom’s friend, which is why I can’t take sides.’
And round they went, and nothing changed. Tom and Henry
were still as close as they’d always been, and Meg had finally
given in to Henry’s cajoling and agreed to have the loving
couple over to dinner the week before. What else could she do?
And really, all things considered, Meg had to admit that the
evening had gone fairly well, and they’d all survived. Tom’s new
woman was perfectly pleasant, and had been suitably impressed
with Henry’s salmon and crab roulade.
Anne would just have to move on. She would move on —
she’d already made a start. By Christmas, maybe even by
Hallowe’en, she’d be back to her old reliable self.
Meg sniffed her fingers. They smelt nice and flowery, all
traces of chlorine gone. She must ask Anne where she’d bought
that spray. Trust her sister-in-law, always so organised. She got
up and began gathering her things together.

★★★

Horrible, horrible, the thought of him taking another woman

to Meg and Henry’s. The four of them chatting together in the
sitting room. Henry producing his usual plate of little nibbles to
go with their pre-dinner drinks, Meg putting on a CD.
Betrayal, it felt like, pushing her away in favour of Tom - but
she couldn’t think like that. She mustn’t think like that. She
loved her brother; she wouldn’t blame him for wanting to hold
on to his friend.
She hurried towards her car, brushing impatiently at the tears
that insisted on coming. Stop it, get over it, she told herself
fiercely. Move on.
But it still felt terribly like betrayal.

★★★

27
 Roisin Meaney

As the shop door opened, Michael Browne glanced up from the

till. ‘Sorry, I’m closed.’ He shut the drawer of the cash register
and slid the coin bags onto the shelf underneath.
‘I’m not here to buy nothing,’ she said, taking a few steps
towards him, holding a small child by the hand. ‘I just want to
talk to you.’
Her accent was flat. Her grammar made him wince. He
regarded her over his glasses. She was young, around twenty. Pale,
pinched face. She looked like a square meal wouldn’t go amiss.
‘Come back on Monday,’ he said. ‘You can talk all you want
then. I’m closed.’ In future he’d turn the key at five to six.
She stayed where she was. She didn’t look as if she was hiding
any kind of weapon, but he pushed the cash bags further in all
the same. You couldn’t be too careful. She could have a syringe
up her sleeve — or there might be an accomplice waiting outside.
‘I’m closed,’ he repeated firmly.
‘This won’t take long,’ she said. ‘I just have to tell you some¬
thing.’
Michael strode out from behind the counter and stood
squarely in front of her, arms folded. She barely came up to his
shoulder. She took a half-step backwards, but remained facing
him. The child scuttled behind her.
‘What bit of “I’m closed” do you not understand?’ Michael
asked angrily. ‘It’s six o’clock and I’ve been here all day, and
whatever you want can wait till Monday. Now hop it before I
call the guards.’
‘You’re Ethan’s father,’ she said rapidly, her eyes on his face.
The words, so totally unexpected, brought him up short. His
arms tightened across his chest. He could feel his gut clenching.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
‘I had to come here,’ she said, the words falling over them¬
selves now, as if his question had unleashed them. ‘I didn’t know
where you lived — I just knew this was your shop. I waited till
you were closing up.’

28
 The Things We Do For Love

‘What do you want?' he repeated angrily, louder than he’d

intended. His heart, his whole chest, thumping now against his
folded arms.
‘We were together,’ she said, her eyes never leaving his face.
‘Me and Ethan. I saw you at the funeral.’
And abruptly, Michael knew what was coming. He dropped
his arms and took a step towards her.
‘He’s Ethan’s,’ she said, stepping back again, almost tripping
over the little boy.
Michael strode past her and opened the door. ‘Get out,’ he
said tightly, feeling the blood race inside him, ‘before I call the
guards.’
She stood her ground, an arm around the child, who was
burrowing into her side. ‘We need your help,’ she said urgently.
‘Please—’
‘Get out,’ Michael repeated, gritting his teeth. ‘Stop talking.
Leave my shop now.’
She took a step towards him. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m desperate.
We got no place to stay - we’re getting thrown out on—’
‘For the last time,’ he said, ‘I’m asking you to leave.’
‘Please, I wouldn’t ask only—’
‘I’m counting to ten,’ Michael said.
‘He’s your family,’ she insisted, her voice beginning to
tremble. ‘I was dealing, but I stopped, for him.’
‘Congratulations,’ Michael said. ‘One, two, three.’
She looked at him in despair. ‘I got nothing, no money,
nothing. If you won’t help us we’ll be out on the—’
‘Four, five, six.’
‘He’s your grandchild - don’t that mean nothing to you?
Your grandchild living rough?
‘Seven, eight, nine.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said then, pulling the boy past
Michael and turning onto the street.
Michael closed the door and locked it, and changed the sign

29
 Roisin Meaney

from open to closed. He finished bagging the money and

packed it into his rucksack and left through the back way, as he
always did. And not once on the way home, which took twenty
minutes on foot, did he allow his dead son to cross his mind.
But as soon as he opened the door of his house, Ethan came
anyway.

She almost missed the ad. She would have missed it if she
hadn’t got trapped in the narrow aisle behind the long-haired
man’s buggy, forcing her to slow her pace to his as he trundled
his baby unhurriedly past the tubes of watercolours and oils
and acrylics, past the easels and sketchpads and bottles of tur¬
pentine, until Jackie was ready to scream. Twelve minutes
already wasted out of her precious lunch hour, five of those
spent rummaging through the paintbrush display, because the
single assistant — one assistant, in a shop this size, at the busiest
time of the day — was too preoccupied behind the counter to
help her.
‘Would you mind awfully?’Jackie’s boss had asked. ‘I need it
for my class this evening, and I’ve got nobody else to ask.’ And
what could Jackie do but agree to call by the art-supplies shop
in her lunch hour to buy the forgotten watercolour brush? To
be fair, Jackie had been given a fiver for her trouble — ‘The least
I can do is buy your sandwich,’ her boss had said, and Jackie had
silently agreed — but what good was that if she had no time to
eat it?
The long-haired man stopped suddenly to study something
that had caught his attention, and Jackie began to edge past him.
‘Someone looking for a model,’ he said, jerking a thumb
towards a notice pinned to a shelf. Jackie made some non-com¬
mittal reply before skirting the buggy and taking her place in the
queue. Not a word of apology for holding her up — he must have
realised she was behind him. Some people didn’t give a damn.
She watched the assistant totting up purchases on the cash

30
 The Things We Do For Love

register. Two people ahead of her in the queue, and almost

twenty minutes gone now out of her lunch hour.
Someone looking for a model. Why would anyone advertise
for a model in an art-supplies shop? What kind of model needed
sketchpads and brushes? The queue shifted up as a customer left,
and Jackie shuffled along, taking her wallet from her bag.
And then it hit her. An artist must be looking for a model,
someone to sit for a painting. The queue moved again, and
Jackie stood at the counter, waiting for the remaining customer
to be served.
An artist’s model. Paid work, presumably. Paid for sitting still.
‘Just this,’ she said to the assistant, when her turn came. The
brush was bagged and she paid for it, and then she stood aside
while the man with the buggy handed his purchases to the assis¬
tant.
Couldn’t hurt to look — it would only take a minute. She
walked back to the notice. The handwriting was ridiculously
round. All the letter is had a flower on top of them instead of
a dot. A border of smiley faces marched around the words in
various colours.

Wanted - model for adult life-drawing class. No prior

experience necessary. Build immaterial, but must be
over 18. Tuesdays 7.30-9.30. Relaxed atmosphere.

An evening class. So, not just one artist, lots of them. And life
drawing - wasn’t that where you got naked? Stripped off in
front of strangers? God, she wouldn’t be into that at all, much
too sleazy. She began to turn away - and then stopped.
Artists weren’t sleazy, though. Art wasn’t sleazy. Look at all
the famous paintings of naked women that people paid millions
for. It wasn’t as if she’d be posing for a porn magazine, not in
an evening class. It would be tasteful and - well, arty. She
turned back and read the ad again.

31
 Roisin Meaney

‘Build immaterial’, so you didn’t have to have the perfect

figure. Tuesday evenings — she could manage that. Didn’t say
where, but evening classes were usually held in the senior col¬
lege, weren’t they? She could tell her parents she’d enrolled in
some other class, whatever else was on the same night. Might
even be a bit of a laugh, sprawled out on a blanket or whatever,
like some kind of Greek goddess. She searched in her bag,
found an old receipt and scribbled down the mobile phone
number that was at the bottom of the ad. No harm in finding
out more, like how much it paid. She wasn’t committing her¬
self to anything by just asking.
She bought her sandwich, went back to the boutique and
plugged in the kettle in the little room behind the shop floor.
While she was waiting for it to boil she called the number from
the ad. The woman who answered sounded friendly. ‘I’m the
teacher,’ she said. ‘Let’s meet up, and you can ask me all about
it. I’ll wear an orange scarf so you’ll recognise me. What about
later today? I’m free anytime after three.’
Jackie hesitated, reluctant to commit herself to anything
other than a phone call. On the other hand, it might be good
to come face to face with the teacher and see what she was like.
‘I finish work at five thirty,’ she replied.
She wasn’t signing up to anything. They were just meeting,
she could still say no. But it might be a laugh. Nothing to lose
by finding out about it anyway.

★★★

Irene knew by his breathing that he was awake. She took off her
robe and slung it on the chair. She slid naked between the sheets
and turned towards her husband, who wore boxer shorts, and
whose back was to her. She laid a hand on his side, just above
the waistband of the boxers, feeling the rise and fall of his
ribcage. She began stroking the warm skin gently, sliding her
body closer until she could feel the heat from his. The scent

32
 The Things We Do For Love

she’d just dabbed onto her pulse points wafted around her - she
knew he could smell it too.
As she slid her hand slowly around his waist he turned onto
his stomach, leaving her palm sitting in the middle of his back.
After a few seconds she moved away from him and closed her
eyes.

33
 Sunday

Audrey woke with a start, feeling hot breath on her face. She
screamed and leaped out of bed. Her flailing left arm caught the
little dog and sent her flying off in the other direction with a
muffled yelp.
‘Oh!’ Audrey scrambled back across the bed and peered over
the far side. ‘I’m so sorry. Are you alright?’
Her new pet looked none the worse for her abrupt departure
from the pillow. Audrey scooped her up and settled back against
the headboard, pulling the duvet around both of them. ‘I
thought you were a burglar,’ she told the little animal. ‘Mind
you,’ she added sternly, ‘if you’d slept in your own bed this
would never have happened.’
She’d lasted forty minutes the night before, determined to
ignore the surprisingly loud whines from the kitchen. To give
in would be a disaster: her years of experience in the classroom
had taught her that. You had to establish who was boss from the
start. Audrey would be resolute, and the whining would even¬
tually stop, and a lesson would have been learnt.
But the whining didn’t stop. The whining showed no sign of
stopping. Audrey buried her head under a pillow, vowing to

34
 The Things We Do For Love

stick to her guns. The laundry basket was a perfectly adequate

bed, and very comfortable with the old cushion in it. Really,
you couldn’t get better.
A fresh outburst of piteous whines drifted upstairs. Audrey
groaned and turned over. This was to be expected: a new place
would be disorienting. The little dog just needed to settle. She’d
be fine after the first night. If Audrey gave in now, the routine
would never be established.
More whining. Audrey pulled the duvet over her head.
Twelve weeks old, still just a baby really. Probably not long sep¬
arated from its mother. Maybe there had been lots of brothers
and sisters who’d all snuggled up together at night. If that was
the case, no wonder the pup was lonely now, all by herself in a
strange dark room.
The whining continued unabated. When her clock radio
showed midnight, Audrey finally admitted defeat. She got out
of bed and padded downstairs, hearing the whines turn to
excited yaps as she approached the kitchen door. Scolding as she
went — ‘You’re being very silly, there’s nothing to be afraid of,
you shouldn’t be making such a fuss, I’m only up the stairs’ —
she hefted the laundry basket back to her bedroom, the pup
scampering delightedly around her feet.
‘This is only for tonight,’ she warned, placing the basket in
the corner of the room. ‘In you go.’ She patted the cushion
encouragingly, but the new arrival was trotting happily around
the room, scrabbling at the duvet in an attempt to scale the bed,
pushing her nose into Audrey’s bundle of folded clothes on the
chair and sending them tumbling to the floor.
‘Come on now,’ Audrey ordered, ‘into your basket. Good
dog. Good girl.’ She crossed the room, scooped up the little dog
and placed her in the basket. ‘Stay,’ she said firmly - but the
minute she turned towards the bed the pup leaped onto the
floor and padded after her.
Audrey sighed. She looked down at the small pup’s hopeful

35
 Roisin Meaney

face. ‘I’m not going to win, am I?’ She picked her up and placed
her at the bottom of the bed. ‘No more whining,’ she ordered,
■*

getting in herself, ‘and certainly no barking. And please try to

keep to your end.’
The little dog padded around the duvet, turning in circles
until she settled herself squarely on Audrey’s feet, dropping her
head onto her paws with a satisfied grunt.
Audrey lay and listened to the tiny, rapid breaths, and felt the
warm weight of the dog’s little body. She had to admit that it
was pleasant to have another presence in the room, even if a
small, hairy four-legged creature wouldn’t have been her first
choice of bedroom companion.
Still, for the first time in her life she wasn’t alone as she fell
asleep, which could only be a good thing. The laundry basket
would move back to the kitchen first thing in the morning, and
Audrey would be unrelenting tomorrow night.
She considered possible names as she drifted to sleep, and
somewhere during the night, the perfect one floated into her
head. She lifted the pup now and looked into her face. ‘Dolly,’
she said.
The pup yapped, one of her ears pricking up, her pink
tongue darting towards Audrey’s face.
‘Dolly,’ Audrey repeated.
Her first pet, with a name chosen by her, totally dependent
on Audrey for food and shelter. She’d look on it as a rehearsal
for the real thing - for wasn’t the man she was waiting for on
his way? Wouldn’t he appear at any time? And after that the
babies would come along, like they came for everyone else. So
what if Audrey had to wait a bit longer? She was still only
thirty-seven — lots of people didn’t have babies until they were
that age, or even past it.
Didn’t things always work out eventually? Hadn’t her life¬
drawing model come along yesterday, just like Audrey had
known she would? Within minutes of meeting her, Audrey

36
 The Things We Do For Love

could tell that Jackie was just what she’d been looking for, and
now everything was sorted for Tuesday. Things always worked
out if you waited long enough.
‘Come on,’ she said, pushing away the duvet and sliding to
the edge of the bed. ‘Time for breakfast — and I suppose you
need to spend a penny.’
She slipped her feet into the fluffy purple mules she hadn’t
been able to resist a week ago and pulled on her blue and white
dressing-gown, and she and Dolly went downstairs.
And happily, the discovery of little pennies spent during the
night on various sections of the duvet wasn’t made until after
the full Irish breakfast.

★★★

As soon as James cut the engine, Charlie unclipped her seat-belt

and shot from the car.
‘Easy,’ he said — but she was already halfway up the garden
path. The front door opened before she reached it, and Maud
opened her arms to her granddaughter.
‘There you are at last,’ James heard. He locked the car and
walked up the path as the other two disappeared inside. He met
his father-in-law in the hall. ‘Peter.’ Timothy shook his hand.
‘How’re you keeping?’
His tone was perfectly civil. If you didn’t know either of
them, if you were ignorant of their history, you’d swear the two
men were as close as any in-laws could be.
‘Actually,’James said, ‘I’m not using Peter any more, it’s James
now. I’ve switched to my second name.’
‘Right.’ Timothy nodded, unsurprised. ‘I’ll mention it to
Maud.’
‘If you would,’James said. ‘It’s just for Charlie, so she doesn’t
get confused. I need everyone to use the same name.’
‘Of course. I can understand that.’ Timothy indicated the sit¬
ting room. ‘Come on in. You’ll have a drop of something?’

37
 Roisin Meaney

They’d been there for Charlie, all through the nightmare.

When James was useless with grief and rage, when everyone
had been convinced that he was somehow responsible - he
must be: wasn’t the husband always involved? — Maud and
Timothy had taken care of Charlie, somehow managing to see
past their own devastation to the bewildered little girl who kept
asking when her mother would be coming back.
And they’d never once said a word against James to her, never
tried to turn her against him — even though they must have sus¬
pected him too. They must have had questions they’d hardly
dared to voice, even to each other. They must have wondered,
lying awake in the night, if James had ended their daughter’s
life.
‘How are things?’ Timothy filled a glass with room-tempera¬
ture 7Up and handed it to him. ‘How’s the new job?’
‘Fine,’James answered.
The new job wasn’t fine. The new job was far from fine.
Being an estate agent had never been part of the plan, and he
hated it. Being an architect was all he’d ever wanted, and if the
fates hadn’t decided to destroy his life, he’d still be an architect.
But there was little to be gained by saying that now. Timothy
didn’t want to hear any of it.
‘And the house is alright?’
‘The house is OK,’James answered. The house actually was
OK, insofar as it was clean and tolerably well furnished. It was
the neighbourhood that was the problem - but saying that
would sound horribly snobbish, and again, it wasn’t what
Timothy needed or wanted to hear.
‘And Charlie? She settling into the new school?’
‘She is, aye. She seems to like it.' James sipped his drink,
wishing for ice and a lemon slice to cut the sweetness. ‘I think
she has a boyfriend,’ he added.
Timothy raised his eyebrows. ‘At six?’
‘Ach no, I’m joking — but she’s got friendly with some boy
in her class. I’m just glad she’s happy.’

38
 The Things We Do For Love

Timothy poured himself a small dark sherry. ‘Of course.’ The

mantel clock ticked. From the kitchen they could hear the high
pitch of Charlies voice, the bubble of her laughter.
‘I’ve enrolled in an evening class,’James said, when the silence
had started to stretch. ‘Art.’ He wouldn’t say life drawing:
Timothy might get the wrong idea.
‘Evening class? Have you someone to mind Charlie?’
James smothered the stab of irritation. Timothy was con¬
cerned, that was all. Just looking out for his granddaughter.
‘The next-door neighbour,’James told him. ‘Nice woman. Her
husband goes out every Tuesday, so it suits her to come around.’
‘That’s good ... I never would have thought you had any
great interest in art, though.’
‘I thought I’d give it a go,’James said. ‘You never know.’
They passed the time with this idle conversation, this polite
chit-chat, until Charlie appeared at the door. ‘Granny says
lunch is ready.’
And James saw, with a dart of sorrow, that his daughter
looked happier than he’d seen her all month.

★★★

Michael Browne warmed milk and added a dessertspoon of

whiskey to it, like he always did. He brought the glass upstairs
and sipped as he undressed and got into his blue pyjama bot¬
toms. He washed his face and cleaned his teeth in the bathroom
before putting on his top. He got into bed and set his alarm for
half past seven. He switched off his bedside lamp and lay down.
So far, so normal. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep,
knowing it wouldn’t come.
Why had she turned up? Why had this . . . irritation been vis¬
ited on him? Hadn’t he had enough? Hadn’t the fates dealt him
more than his share of rotten hands? Leave me alone, he
shouted in his head, to whatever malevolent beings might be
listening. Get the hell away from me - go and bother someone
else with your nasty little tricks.

39
 Roisin Meaney

We were together, she’d said, me and Ethan. Which could,

he supposed, be the truth - what had he known about his son’s
friends in the last eight years of Ethans life? Not a thing.
Not since you threw him out of the house at sixteen. The
voice was back, the voice he thought he’d silenced forever.
Michael turned over, punching his pillow angrily. ‘He left me
no choice,’ he said loudly into the darkness. ‘It was his own
doing.’ How many times had he used those very words to
Valerie, in tears at the thought of her brother roaming the
streets in the rain?
‘You can’t just leave him to fend for himself, Dad,’ she’d wept.
‘It’s cruel — he’s only a child.’
‘He’s an addict,’ Michael had insisted, over and over. ‘We can’t
help him unless he admits he needs help. You saw what he was
like before he left.’
‘Before you kicked him out, you mean.’
‘Valerie, he was out of control. He was stealing from me, he
was lying . . .’
But nothing he said had made any difference. However bad
the circumstances that had led to Ethan’s departure, he was still
Valerie’s big brother, and Michael was the monster who’d ban¬
ished him from the house. So, of course, Valerie had left too, as
soon as she could afford it, and now what little contact they had
was forced and polite — they were more like distant acquain¬
tances than father and daughter. She visited him out of a sense
of duty. Affection didn’t come into it.
He looked at the clock. 2:53. A car passed in the street out¬
side, tyres sloshing through water. He was sick of this country,
sick of the interminable rain, the awful unrelenting greyness. He
and Ruth had dreamed of living in the south of Spain, or some¬
where equally balmy. You could open a pet shop anywhere. And
the kids would love it, growing up with blue skies and sunshine.
But before they’d had a chance to put their plan into action,
Ruth had pulled up at a roundabout on the way to visit her

40
 The Things We Do For Love

mother, and a truck in the next lane had braked too sharply and
jack-knifed into her car, and Michael hadn’t been allowed to
view her body. Ethan had been four, Valerie just two—
Enough, enough of that. Michael shoved the memory away,
the pain of it still sharp after more than twenty years, and turned
his thoughts instead to yesterday’s dilemma.
Who was to say that the boy was Ethan’s? There was only
his mother’s word for it. Maybe she had known Ethan, maybe
that part was true — but they might have been casual acquain¬
tances, and she could have discovered that Ethan’s father
owned a shop, and decided she’d be on to a good thing by
passing her son off as his grandchild. Ethan wasn’t around to
confirm or deny it, so she might have figured she could get
away with it.
I was dealing, she’d said — and Michael knew all about that,
how drugs turned you into a liar and a thief. How they stripped
you of your self-respect, tore away every shred of decency you
possessed. He’d hardly recognised Ethan in the last few terrible
weeks before the final row. The surly teenager who had gone
through Michael’s pockets and stayed out all night bore no
resemblance to the little boy he’d pushed on the swing, or
helped with his homework.
The child in the shop was younger than Ethan had been
when Ruth was killed, no more than two or three, by the look
of him. What kind of a life must he have, with a mother
involved in drugs and an absent father, whoever he might be?
Michael dreaded to think what kind of a dump she shared with
other down-and-outs.
She’d said she’d given up dealing, which Michael doubted.
Why would she give up if she was making money from it? So
easy to prey on the weakest, so tempting to wrest every last cent
from them when they were begging for a fix, when they’d do
anything for it.
She’d said they were being thrown out of wherever they were

41
 Roisin Meaney

living. So the boy would be homeless, not even a filthy bed to

lie on.
Stop. Michael punched his pillow again, willing his mind to
shut down, longing for sleep — but the thoughts refused to leave
him alone. Ethan refused to leave him alone. Michaels only
son, his only beloved son, dead from an overdose at twenty-
four. Lying under six feet of earth in the graveyard, next to his
mother.
And what if this story was true? What if Ethan had been a
father himself? Because, distasteful as it was to Michael, there
was a possibility that she was telling the truth. Maybe Ethan had
held that boy as a baby. Maybe he’d had feelings for that girl—
Michael shook his head angrily. Nonsense, all nonsense and
lies. Someone trying to pull a fast one, trying to con money out
of him. He wasn’t responsible for a couple of strangers, what¬
ever their circumstances. They were nothing to him.
He heard a fresh rattle of drops on the window then, and the
wind whipping up. More bloody rain. He remembered lying in
bed after Ethan had gone, listening to the rain and wondering
if his son had a roof over his head.
He turned again, pulling the covers up to block out the
sound — and at two minutes to seven he finally tumbled into a
deep sleep.

42
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 XXXVIII

ITHOUT the Imperial city of Kioto, in an

open field, lay encamped a little army of
thirteen hundred men. It was some months
following the decisive action of Mori at
Shimonoseki. Imperialists of the
neighborhood could not have told who the
commander of this force was. They were
known simply as the “Irregulars.”
Small as was the force, it was admirably
trained and drilled in all three of its
divisions of cavalry, infantry, and artillery.
Each division was the flower and choice of
some larger body. The force, which had
remained in inaction for a considerable
period, showed nevertheless a state of
ruling vigilance, whether for attack or
defence could not have been told from its
appearance.
The camp was in the shape of an elongated circle, whose
circumference was regularly defined by field-pieces set at regular
intervals, and trained to oppose any invading force. Near each
cannon were tethered the horses furnishing the motive power. Hard
by, stretched upon the ground, or lounging within the scant shadows
of the gun-carriages, were the artillerymen. Infantry guards, in
armor, and for the most part armed with rifles, patrolled the space
without the circle. Other soldiers and samurai, armed only with
swords, sat in the openings of tents assigned to their division, or
occupied the time in sword exercise in the open spaces between
their shelters. Near the centre of the encampment were assembled
the horses of the cavalry division, saddled and in complete readiness
for their riders, who lounged near by.
Within a short stone’s-throw of the horsemen was pitched what
seemed, from its commanding position on a little eminence, the tent
of the commander of the “Irregulars.” Close by its entrance stood an
enormous samurai, whose naked sword was held lightly, carelessly,
in his hand. In conversation with him stood a hardy youth, attired as
a cavalryman.
The curtains of the tent on the eminence were parted deftly, and
the slight figure of a boy hastened towards the two.
“My Lord of Catzu,” he said, “the Prince Mori desires your
presence, and that of you also, Sir Genji.”
Toro smiled at the youth’s ceremoniousness.
“Is there news, my Jiro?” he asked.
“Oguri, as you know, has arrived from the south, and our enemies
have reported concerning the condition of the city.”
The three hastened within, where they found Oguri and Mori.
“Now, then, Oguri, your news,” commanded Mori.
“Your highness,” said Oguri, “the British have bombarded
Kagoshima as a result of our attack upon the foreign fleet.”
“Kagoshima!” exclaimed Mori—“the capital of our old friend
Satsuma. Then, indeed, have we brought trouble upon our allies.”
Other members of Mori’s staff sent through Kioto reported the
results of their investigations. The premier Echizen had abolished the
custom of the daimio’s compulsory residence in Yedo during a
portion of each year, and now all these territorial lords resided in
Kioto. Within the Imperial palace of Kommei Tenno the Lord Aidzu
appeared to have controlling influence. The Lord of Catzu was there
with him in consultation. Troops of the Aidzu clan had arrived at the
palace in great numbers and were encamped in the flower-gardens.
Though loathing the shogunate, the Mikado appeared to be
completely under its control.
Having ascertained these facts, Mori dismissed all the staff save
Oguri, Toro, Genji, and Jiro.
“No answer has come to our petition?” he asked.
The four shook their heads.
“None,” they said.
“You have heard the reports,” continued Mori, “and will perceive
that the Aidzu-Catzu party, now in possession of the Emperor’s
person and the palace, are determined upon something. These
constant arrivals of new troops, the silence of the Mikado to our
petition, the crowding of the palace with armed samurai—all these
things mean that we are to be punished for having petitioned the
Mikado to remove from us the ban of outlaw.”
“Then, your highness,” broke in Toro, “since the petition was not
signed by you, but came from us, your followers, they may now
know of your arrival here, and may be preparing to send out an
expedition against you in the south.”
“No,” replied Mori, “I think they know I am here with you, and
propose to attack me at once here in my camp. Now, my friends, the
time has come for me to disclose to you the real purpose of this
expedition. We have respectfully petitioned the Mikado to admit us
again to his favor. He is silent. He is surrounded by his enemies. We
must attack the palace and rid it of the Aidzu-Catzu combination,
thus allowing the Mikado once more to become a free agent.”
Oguri and Genji leaped to their swords.
“Now, on the instant, my lord,” they cried.
Mori answered, calmly:
 “No; we must first gain some knowledge of the exact plans of
those within the palace. I want a volunteer for this service.”
Simultaneously the four cried out for the service. Mori considered.
“No, not you, Toro; you would be recognized too quickly; nor you,
Oguri, for you are needed sorely here. Perhaps you, Genji, but you
are too large.”
“I am small. The task is mine,” broke in Jiro. “I will go.”
“Not without me,” said Genji.
“Why not without you, Sir Genji?” inquired Mori, mildly. “The boy
Jiro needs no guardian. He has proved his valor and discretion upon
many an occasion.”
With a smile whose influence was ever potent with the Shining
Prince, Jiro moved nearer his commander. He said, gently:
“Permit Sir Genji to accompany me. I have resources within the
palace I need not speak of now, which will insure me complete
safety, but I would ask that the samurai be placed”—he smiled
boyishly—“under my command, so that if I am forced to remain
within the palace he may carry to you whatever news I may gain.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Mori. “What resources can you
have in the Mikado’s palace?”
The lad, stammering, blushed.
“My lord,” he said, “you know I visited the palace before, and—
and—”
He broke off in confusion.
“As you will,” said Mori, turning aside.
An hour later the samurai Genji strode through the eastern gate of
Kommei Tenno’s palace, accompanied by a young woman with the
air of a princess. They were allowed to pass, while Genji answered
the challenge of the guard readily.
 “Of the household of the Lord Catzu,” he said, pointing to the
young woman. “My lord’s apartments?”
The guard indicated the house in which the Lord Catzu had
temporarily taken up his residence. Without further challenge, the
two reached the door of Catzu’s private apartment. The guard at the
door, recognizing the two, ushered them into the presence of the
Lord Catzu.
They found him before a table on which were spread plans and
letters. In irritation at being disturbed in the midst of some
important employment, Catzu glanced up from his scrolls.
His face became purple with astonishment and mingled emotions.
From the caverns of flesh surrounding his puffy cheeks his little eyes
gleamed. He stared at the two with his mouth agape. They regarded
him smilingly. Finally Catzu gasped out:
“By the god Bishamon!” and again lapsed speechless.
The woman, advancing, knelt at his feet.
Catzu lifted her into his arms.
“Wistaria!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” she smiled up at him. “It is indeed Wistaria.”
Catzu held her at arm’s-length.
“Ah, my lady,” he chuckled, wagging his head at her, “it is plain to
be seen that a religious life has dried your tears and honorably
mended a foolish heart-break. The mountains have made you as
rosy as its flowers and as strong and hardy as its trees.”
“And thou, dear uncle?” she inquired. “Thou, too, seemest in good
health and spirits.”
Catzu sighed, somewhat out of keeping with his fat and happy
appearance.
“Alas, my dear Wistaria,” he said, “your poor old uncle has
suffered much.”
 “But how?” asked Wistaria with feigned surprise.
A tear appeared in Catzu’s eyes and rolled over his puffed cheeks.
“I have lost my graceless son,” he said.
“My uncle!” said Wistaria, sympathetically, while she looked past
him at Genji with a knowing glance.
Catzu also turned towards Genji.
“And you, Sir Genji, what became of you? Now, sir, tell me how it
comes that you are here with my lady niece.”
“My lord,” answered Genji, “I joined my lady, summoned by a
messenger at Yokohama, on the day of the reception in the Treaty
House. I turned my prisoners over to another. I trust they were
deservedly punished for their offence.”
“Nay,” said Catzu, “they escaped. But no matter. And you,
Wistaria, have you any love left for that husband of yours who
deserted you on your wedding-day, or have the mountains and the
gods taught you of his baseness?”
Wistaria’s features darkened in seeming hate.
“I could kill him,” she said. Under her breath she added, “Forgive
me.”
The Lord Catzu appeared satisfied and turned to Genji.
“You may resume your old place in my train. There will be work
for you soon.”
Genji bowing, withdrew.
“Uncle,” said Wistaria, “tell me what your words just now meant?”
“Presently, presently,” returned Catzu. “I have good news for you.
But, first, what of yourself?”
Wistaria shrugged her pretty shoulders.
“Oh, of myself there is little to tell. I grew tired of the service of
the temple. Thou knowest that I was never meant for a priestess.
Thou didst use to declare,” she added, smiling roguishly, “that the
gods designed me for the court.”
“True, true,” said Catzu, regarding her fondly, “and more than ever
I declare it. Thou hast budded into a very beautiful woman, my little
niece. But continue. Thou wert tired of the temple—yes?”
“Well, I thought I had surely offered up sufficient supplication to
the gods to have saved a hundred ancestors and parents’ august
souls. So I sent for Genji, and have, as thou seest, returned unto
thee.”
“Thou didst well. And, what is more, it shall be my task to punish
your husband.”
Wistaria averted her face for a moment. Then seating herself on
the floor, comfortably against his knee, she raised to him innocent
eyes.
“Punish him? Why, how can that be, honorable uncle?”
“He is encamped near by with a rebel army,” said Catzu, lowering
his voice confidentially; “the day after to-morrow we send an army
of chastisement against him under the valiant Prince of Mito.”
“The Prince of Mito,” repeated Wistaria, half aloud.
“Yes, a brave nobleman I desire to become your husband in time.
You will be free ere long, I do assure you.” Catzu chuckled
confidently.
“What is the offence of—of—this rebel?”
“Your husband dog? He conspires against the Mikado. Oh, we shall
drive him out.”
An attendant, interrupting them, ushered in Aidzu. Wistaria
slipped to the door. Catzu recalled her.
“Thou mayest remain, niece. Hear our plans. They closely concern
thee.”
 “I will return in a moment; but Genji has my perfume sack, which
I desire.”
Outside the door, Wistaria spoke in an excited whisper to Genji.
“Quick, Genji, you must hasten back to the camp without delay.
Tell the Prince that an army of chastisement under the young Prince
of Mito will attack him the day after to-morrow. You yourself have
seen the forces in the gardens. Go to the camp at once. Make your
report and return then to me.”
“And thou, my lady?”
“I cannot return at this time without exciting suspicion, perhaps
hastening the attack upon my lord by a day. I must remain. I can be
of service here.”
“I like not to leave thee,” said Genji, in great doubt and perplexity.
“Nay, you must do so; I insist.”
“I cannot. My duty—”
“Ah, Genji,” remonstrated Wistaria, “the devotion of a samurai is
best proved by his obedience. Go thou to the camp of my lord; do, I
beg—nay, I command thee.”
Genji bent his forehead to her hand, then very slowly turned and
left her.
Her uncle, grown impatient for his niece, came into the ante-
chamber.
 XXXIX

HE report of the samurai Genji caused an

instant stir of preparation throughout the
camp of Mori. The commanders of the
batteries inspected their pieces carefully,
giving orders for hurried repairs where
necessary; horses were examined foot by
foot, and within the tent of the Irregulars’
leader a last council of the staff arranged
the details of an early morning march. Then
the rank and file were sent to sleep upon
their arms.
“You are certain Jiro is in no danger?”
Mori asked, just before the samurai’s return
to the palace.
“None whatever,” answered Genji, “even
if I am not with him, your highness. He has
friends at court and may yet serve us
further.”
Relieved in mind concerning the safety of the youth, in whom Mori
placed deep confidence and for whom he had great affection, the
leader of the Irregulars returned to his tent. There he found his staff,
the leading kuge of Choshui, still gathered, though the morning’s
attack had been thoroughly ordered.
 Seating himself, Mori began the composition of a memorial to the
Imperial throne. Glancing up, he saw his officers silently watching
him.
“What is it?” he inquired.
Oguri stepped forward. There was a strange gravity and even
sadness in his face as he bowed deeply before his superior.
“Your highness,” he said, “our cause is just, and history should
accord us our proper place when the anti-Shogun government is
established.”
“Yes.”
“But it is of the present we think.”
“Speak on.”
“The present esteem of our friends in the Kioto court—we must
advise them of our purity of motive.”
Mori held up quietly the scroll upon which he had been engaged.
He replied:
“I have thought of that. At this moment I am inditing a memorial
to the throne, begging his Imperial Majesty’s pardon for creating a
disturbance so near to the base of the chariot (throne), but declaring
that we do it that he may rule without a Shogun, the sole and
Imperial master of his own empire.”
The officers looked at each other with solemn expressions of
approval.
“My lord,” said Oguri, “we would wish also to write letters to our
personal friends at the Imperial court. May we have your august
permission to do so?”
“Do so at once, my brave men,” returned Mori, “but do not forget
that we cannot send them this night, since that would warn them of
our contemplated attack. Leave your letters with me. Write them
here, if you wish, and I will be responsible for their delivery.”
 Then the company, careful of their honor with their friends and
foes alike at court, set to their task. With tears in their eyes, the
patriots traced upon the paper words of devotion to their country
and their cause. Soon a little pile of epistles lay under Mori’s hand.
Their valor was in no way diminished by this satisfaction of their
honor.
During the night Mori obtained some rest, which was broken at
intervals when bands of ronins, who had devoted themselves since
the Yedo troubles to the extermination of anti-Imperialists, came to
his encampment, offering their services in any movement against
the Aidzu-Catzu combination. So small was Mori’s force that he
would have been glad of their aid, but for his unwillingness to stand
sponsor for their unlicensed acts.
At the hour when the Lord of Catzu was unsealing a letter from his
son, Toro, justifying all his actions in the past, and at the same time
beseeching his father’s forgiveness, the little force of Irregulars
encircled the Imperial palace.
The Lord of Catzu had read enough of the letter to understand its
import, when the movements of the army without, accentuated by
the sharp cries of the guarding samurai, came to his ears.
“There has been some strange treason here,” cried Catzu, wildly,
as he summoned his followers to arms.
Mori’s plan of battle was simple. The force had been divided into
three divisions, commanded by himself, Oguri, and Toro respectively.
It was not without misgivings that the Prince had intrusted the
command of a division to the rash Toro, but the reflection that his
very temerity might be a valuable element in the day’s events had
decided him.
Each of these divisions was to proceed to a different gate, through
which a simultaneous attack upon the inner palace was to be made.
Those within were to be driven out by the infantry into the streets,
where cavalry and artillery would cut and pound them to pieces.
 The artillery was upon no account to be directed against the
palace itself, since the life of the Son of Heaven and the safety of the
charging forces within might thereby be imperilled. A portion of the
artillery was given to each division; the cavalry, acting as one body,
was to act as the circumstances might require.
To himself and a band of chosen samurai, Mori reserved the
capture and guarding of the Emperor’s sacred person.
At the western gate Mori halted the van of his division, while the
cavalry, closely compact, rested on his right in readiness for their
orders. At his left was his artillery force, so arranged that their fire
should cut obliquely the line of entrance.
The Irregulars who faced the samurai guarding this port of
entrance presented a far from uniform aspect. They, the infantry of
his force, were all in armor, but their weapons differed. Some carried
rifles, others were armed with spears, swords, and bows and arrows.
They were gathered into corps according to the nature of their arms,
but all were infantry.
At a signal from Mori a rifle volley cut down the samurai at the
gate. Those who were struck dashed through the portals, whence
issued audible proofs of the alarm felt within.
Instantly the ranks of the infantry parted to permit the passage of
a body of laborers and sappers, who, attacking the gate with their
tools, gave promise of a speedy breach.
At the moment when one of the doors gave way, when the
infantry, straining every nerve, waited couched for the charge, when
Mori in their rear gathered about him the picked samurai he was to
lead, there thundered from a point across the palace directly
opposite the heavy detonation of artillery.
The commander was thrown into grave anxiety. From its volume
he knew that one of his lieutenants, disobeying his orders, was
shelling the Imperial palace. The safety of the Emperor, and his own
good faith, were equally endangered, since the death of the Mikado
would make him and his men choteki (traitors) in the eyes of the
nation.
Mori came to an instant decision. Even at the cost of the utter
failure of the storming of the palace, such a false position must be
avoided. Committing the assault of the western gate to a young
officer, and bidding his picked samurai follow him, he seized the
horse an attendant held for him, and galloped around the angle of
the palace wall.
When he came within sight of the central gate of the eastern wall,
Mori saw that Toro, wearying of the slowness of his pioneers, had
ordered his artillery to batter down the doors. One small volley had
been fired when the Prince, riding fiercely at the men serving the
guns, beat them down with the flat of his sword.
“Remove these guns at once,” he shouted; “you must not fire.”
Sheepishly the gunners picked themselves up, as the horses
dragged the pieces to one side. Mori, dismounting, strode up to
Toro, now standing abashed before the very gate he was to storm.
“You are superseded,” roared the enraged Mori. “I give the
command to—”
With a quick, almost superhumanly nervous movement, the gates
were thrust aside from within. The black muzzles of cannon
threatened the now disorganized division of the Irregulars.
“After me,” cried Mori.
A flying leap carried him across the line of cannon. Out from their
mouths belched their fire. The invaders were swept aside. Mori,
striking terrible blows about him, ordered his men to advance, when
the Shogun cannon were withdrawn, and a body of horsemen, with
savage cries, rushed from within the palace, driving before them and
scattering the survivors of Toro’s division.
A horse felled Mori and tossed him aside. As he struck the ground
a gigantic samurai seized his motionless form, threw it across his
shoulder, and carried it into the group of palaces.
 The body of chosen samurai who had followed Mori, more slowly
because on foot, now came up, and made a disheartening stand. A
terrible cry arose that carried dismay, disorganization, and defeat to
all divisions of the Irregulars.
“The Shining Prince is taken! Mori is killed!” was shouted by some
witless member of Toro’s division.
Taken up by others, the report came to the officers in whose
charge the various divisions had been placed. Although Oguri made
every effort to carry cohesion throughout the force, the shout had
done its work. Mori, the Shining Prince, their invincible leader, was
dead, thought the rank and file. All was lost. With such a spirit to
combat, the officers could do nothing.
A superstitious fear that the gods had deserted them entirely for
their sacrilegious act of attacking the palace of their representative
on earth, the divine Mikado, added terror to the Irregulars.
Some little advantage was gained here and there by charges into
the gardens of the palace, but the great force of Aidzu easily
repelled them. Then pouring out into the streets, the army of
chastisement, under the young Prince of Mito, cut asunder the
already divided and leaderless force of Choshui. Away from the
vicinity of the Imperial enclosure the centre of battle rolled. The
cavalry of Mori, dashing about compactly, made charges that were
intended to rally the men of Choshui, but fruitlessly. They alone, of
all the bodies of the Mori army, hung together.
The Shogun troop, having seized the cannon of Toro’s division,
turned them upon the Imperialists. Fresh troops, ordered to the
palace some days before by Aidzu, now arriving, overwhelmed by
sheer swamping effect the artillery of Mori, once their fire was
drawn. Most of Mori’s artillery was now in the hands of the
shogunates.
As the flood of fighting men surged through the city of Kioto in
diverse, disintegrating directions, fire ingulfed large portions of the
city. A gale sprang up from the west, fanning the work of
incendiarism and cannon. Houses, squares, streets, yashishikis of
the visiting daimios, whole districts were destroyed, while the bakufu
followers cannonaded and beat to pieces the public store-houses,
lest some Choshui men should find hiding there. The lowly Eta in
their peaceful villages were driven out and their houses consumed
before the breath of angry war. An Imperial city fell almost to ashes
and ruin in a day and night.
But scattered and isolated as they were, the valorous men of
Choshui, once they recovered themselves from the disaster of the
palace, made a last, wild, determined resistance.
A party under Toro, now insane with grief, occupied house after
house and building after building, as with their rifles they brought
down the enemy during a slow retreat, when they fired every edifice
they were forced to abandon.
Darkness drew no kindly curtain over the red-heated stage of
action. The light of vast conflagrations gave sufficient illumination for
sword to meet sword in a shock broken only by death. The
houseless, homeless residents of the city, non-combatants, fleeing to
the hills for their lives, deepened the tragedy of the scene.
In the confusion of this isolated series of battles, Oguri had come
upon the cavalry division. Vaulting into an empty saddle, he took
command. Diffused as the avenging wave of the young Mito had
now become, it could be broken through in some single spot, Oguri
believed. The bakufu men thought only of attack, not of being
attacked.
Through a quarter of the town as yet untouched by the fury of
either party, Oguri led the cavalry back towards the palace. Coming
upon Toro’s party, he added them to his forces. But with his meeting
of Toro he had chanced upon a fighting zone. Through the cleared
space on which still smouldered the ruins of buildings fired by Toro,
Oguri directed a charge against the infantry opposed to him, and
passed on. In this way, Oguri gained gradually a passage towards
the palace. Whenever he came to a region of houses from which he
was attacked, Toro and his followers, become pioneers and sappers,
levelled and set fire to them, clearing the way for a new charge of
Oguri’s horse.
Slowly, still undiscovered by the main body of the enemy, they
reached the palace.
Gray, dismal, haggard dawned the day, as though fearing to look
with sun eyes upon the horror wrought by dark night. From the
burning city great mists of smouldering débris hastened to veil, as
though in sympathy, the eyes of the lord of day.
Within the palace Mori came to consciousness. He lay in a
chamber looking upon what he recognized as the inner court of the
Imperial palace. One hand wandered in convulsive movements down
his person. He found that his armor was still upon him, though
loosened. Upon the floor by the side of his divan lay his swords and
helmet. Mori fell, rather than rose, from the divan, and stood dizzily,
uncertainly erect. Then attempting to raise his sword, he fell from
weakness.
At the sound a woman came forward from the recesses of the
apartment. Mori regarded her with delirious eyes. She seemed a
white phantom who had risen up in his path to taunt him with her
wondrous loveliness. But over her there was the gauzy cloud of
falsity. She was a vampire.
“You are yourself?” she breathed, in soft question.
Sullenly, dizzily, Mori raised himself, and, with the motion of a
drunken man, stooped to his sword and helmet. Obtaining them, he
turned on the woman burning eyes.
“Touch me not,” he muttered. Then flinging aside the door, and
seeking the stairway as if by instinct, he tumbled rather than walked
down the stairs.
He heard the tramp of horsemen without. Brandishing his sword,
he rushed into the gardens. He was in the midst of Oguri’s
horsemen. The leader flung himself from his horse and threw his
arms about his disabled chief.
Mori tottered into the arms of the chief of his staff.
“Seize the Emperor!” he half moaned, half gasped, in command;
“then—retreat—south—back—to our provinces.”
Anxious to retrieve himself in the eyes of the army whose
destruction he laid at his own door, Toro set off for the building
within the court, shouting to his men, as Oguri received the
swooning Mori into his arms.
“Follow me! To the Emperor!” shrilly cried Toro.
If any of the bakufu troops still remained within the palace they
did not show themselves while Oguri, busied with Mori, let his
cavalry stand idly by. The footfalls of Toro’s party resounded through
the inner quadrangle.
Within an inner chamber, crouching in seeming fear, Toro found a
figure dressed in the garments his knowledge told him were
Imperial. He knew that the central, palace was the Mikado’s
residence. To the crouching figure Toro made respectful obeisance.
“Oh, Son of Heaven, yield thyself to me. I shall care reverently for
thy person,” he said.
The figure raised a pallid face, while trembling lips murmured:
“Wouldst thou lay profane hands upon the sacred person of thy
Emperor?”
“It is he!” cried Toro, delighted. “Seize him, my men, and carry
him off.” He modified his command to add: “Touch him with respect,
I command you.”
To Oguri they bore the still trembling man. The lieutenant ordered
him placed in a norimon, where his sacred person might be shielded
from the scrutiny of his men.
“Is it indeed he?” Oguri questioned Toro.
 “No doubt of it,” returned Toro. “He himself admitted it.”
Oguri and Toro now consulted together as to their next course.
Mori was still insensible, despite their efforts to arouse him. In the
reduced condition of their force, Oguri did not deem it wise to
remain longer, lest returning bakufu hosts should spoil all. He could
not spare the men to carry an additional norimon. He spoke
thoughtfully:
“His highness, our beloved Prince of Mori, is of royal lineage and
blood himself, as thou knowest, my Lord of Catzu. It will, therefore,
be meet that we place him within the same norimon with the Son of
Heaven.”
The body of their senseless leader was placed in the norimon,
while Oguri, in order to attend to his wishes when he should regain
consciousness, was forced also to crowd into the vehicle. Eight
strong samurai lifted the carriage.
“Back to Choshui,” ordered Oguri, mindful of the last order of his
chief. Moreover, the long march back to their base of supplies was
the best, and indeed the only course left to them.
Three miles outside the city, Mori, moaning, struggled in the arms
of Oguri.
“All is lost! All is lost!” cried Mori, with heart-breaking bitterness.
“Nay, my prince, my dear lord,” said Oguri, in a voice as tender
and soft as a woman’s, “all is not lost. We were but a portion of our
one clan of Choshui. Our southern allies, our friends, are only
waiting to rally to thy aid. Moreover, we have achieved a great
triumph over our enemies.” He lowered his voice. “Your highness, we
have honorably captured the person of the Son of Heaven. See!”
He lifted with one hand the head of Mori, while with the other he
parted the curtains of the norimon, letting in the strong light of day,
which shone upon the face of the figure reclining on the opposite
seat in the norimon.
Painfully Mori looked. His head fell back.
 “Fools! Fools!” he mumbled. “You have been tricked by the
cunning Aidzu. That is not the Emperor.”
 XL

OR two days the fleet carrying the flags of

four foreign nations had bombarded Mori’s
intrenchments on the heights of
Shimonoseki. Towards the evening of the
second day, Mori cast up the results.
Guns dismounted by the foreign fire lay
in heaps of débris, the dead and the
wounded impeded the steps of the living,
and fully half of the guns were out of
action. Yet steadily and fiercely the foreign
vessels, sweeping across the fort’s line of
fire in a wide circle, one by one emptied
their guns into the fortress. Only a third of
the garrison now remained to Mori.
Again the Prince drew from his breast
Jiro’s brief letter, sent to him by Oguri, in
charge of the Choshui fortress, whither it
had gone from Kioto.
“My lord,” wrote Jiro, “your honorable family, together with the
two cadet families of Nagate and Suwo, has been stripped of all its
titles. An order has been issued for every loyal clan to march against
you in your southern stronghold. They are sending a vast army
against you. Be warned. It has already departed for your province.
Yet a little cheer—a small light appears to me. The Shogun’s troops,
my lord, are garbed in Japanese fighting attire. They are, moreover,
far from being a united or happy body of men. There is sore
dissatisfaction and unrest among them. Many dislike the prospect of
the long journey to your province, many are secretly opposed to the
chastisement, many Kioto men are entirely unfit for service. If you
will permit your insignificant vassal to suggest, I would remark that
it will be well for your highness now to avail yourself of your many
years of labor in the perfection of the training of your troops in the
arts of Western warfare. When the shogunate troops finally reach
the south, take advantage of their weakness.”
It was the month following Mori’s disastrous expedition to Kioto,
and the letter was now many days old. As Mori bent his head in
restoring the letter to its place, a dull impact shook the fortress. A
shell from a heavy foreign gun, striking the long cannon erected by
the youth Jiro at the previous bombardment, bursting, rolled the
bronze tube from the carriage and swept it into a little knot of
pioneers, crushing and killing the majority of them outright.
A bitter smile, torn from the heart of the commander, curled his
lips.
“Having defied the ‘civilized’ world, I little fear the shogunate,” he
said; “and yet I cannot spend more time here. Our guns are
dismantled. That is an omen for retreat. It was Jiro’s gun, and here
is Jiro’s letter.”
Summoning his officers, the Prince gave the order to evacuate the
works. Horses were attached to such of the guns as were worth
saving. Then, with these in the rear, the remnant of the Shimonoseki
garrison began the march to the Choshui fortress.
Upon rejoining his chief in the latter’s private apartment, Oguri
had news to impart.
“It is a strange army, truly,” he said, “that the Shogun has sent
against us. They are encamped near the highway, a good day’s
journey north of us.”
“A strange army, you say?” inquired Mori, mindful of Jiro’s letter.
 “Ay. Though all the clans were ordered to march against us, but
few have done so, and they are sick, silly fellows, growling at having
to leave the court and its pleasures.”
“How are they armed? With rifles?”
“Some.”
“Artillery?”
“The pieces taken from us in Kioto.”
Mori was lost in reflection for some moments. Then:
“Let all retire to rest at once.”
It was the middle of the afternoon.
Mori added, without pausing to explain to his puzzled chief
lieutenant the reason of his strange order: “At dusk report to me.”
However large an army the Shogun might have sent against the
men of Choshui, the fortress defenders with its attendant army went
to their unaccustomed rest without the slightest fear. The fortress
might now well be considered impregnable. In addition to its regular
defensive works, constructed immediately upon the return of Mori
from his melancholy wedding-day, there were now a deep moat of
great width constructed about the whole region of the fortress, gun-
factories, and the works built by the Prince of Satsuma.
All that afternoon the army of Mori slept. The first hour of
darkness saw a departure from the fortress. First rode six companies
of horsemen, from whose body scouts were thrown out. Next
marched two thousand infantry, all with rifles. They wore no heavy
armor, and as their company commanders gave their orders, their
tactics were seen to be modelled upon European forms. Finally, in
the rear lumbered sixty field-pieces. Oguri rode with the cavalry,
directing the route of the army. Close behind him was Toro, who,
since the affair of Kioto, was on intimate terms of good-fellowship
with the chief lieutenant.
 Mori, attended at a distance by his staff, rode in the centre of the
infantry division. The entire direction of the current routine he left to
his subordinates, riding moodily apart from all. The men marched
with firm and light step. On their own soil they were more assured
and hopeful of the issue.
“Oguri,” asked Toro, as in perfect quiet they advanced with their
cavalry—“Oguri, how may I atone for Kioto?”
“By following my orders closely,” answered the serious Oguri.
“You, with the cavalry, are upon no account to charge before
cannonading begins.”
“I swear by the god of war I will not,” promised Toro.
“You must move to the west at least four miles, throwing out your
scouts regularly.”
“I will. Only give me the chance. Was not I responsible for the
failure at Kioto?” said Toro, his face quivering in spite of himself.
“Yes and no,” said Oguri; “but, at all events, his highness has not
held it against you. He told me that after-events justified you, since
the enemy had artillery at your gate.”
“But he allowed me no chance to explain that I ordered the
pioneers back when I heard their artillery being brought up. I
wanted to check them at once.”
“The Prince has nothing but affection for you,” said Oguri.
“Ah!” cried Toro, in delight.
The other smiled, half paternally, half reprovingly, at the
enthusiasm of youth.
“But you must restrain yourself during the first half of your
manœuvre,” said the chief lieutenant; “during the latter part you
may give free rein to your impetuosity.”
As the first sharp light of the September day began to make
visible objects along the highway, Oguri held out his hand to Toro.
 “Now go,” he said, “and remember all I have said to you. Now is
your opportunity.”
Toro dashed a sleeve to his face. Then, turning to his cavalry, he
raised his sword in command.
“Forward!”
Sharply turning, the six companies wheeled due east, to disappear
in the distance. The main body advanced for two hours. Then Oguri
saw that Toro had reached the spot settled upon in their plan of
battle.
Mori, leaving the centre, came briskly up with his staff, to assume
the ordering of the formation. The infantry were set out in two close
ranks. Back of them, in the centre, the sixty field-pieces were
assembled, their horses tethered close by.
“Scouts!” called Mori to Oguri.
Scouts and skirmishers were thrown out. All rested upon their
arms.
The place was a broad and level plateau, through whose middle
the highway ran. Back of Mori’s artillery rose a steady height which
the army had crossed. Facing the force, resting upon its arms, the
plateau stretched out for a mile until a sharp descent came into
view. Up this the army of the bakufu must climb, since the great
highway was also there.
It was a time of idleness for Mori’s troops, until towards noon,
when the outposts reported to the main body:
“The enemy is approaching.”
Mori issued a number of orders, the effect of which was instantly
seen. The artillery horses were attached to the guns, the infantry
closed ranks. All stood at arms.
Oguri approached the Prince.
“Shall I send the guns to sweep them down before they can gain
the plateau?” he asked, in excitement, as the natural advantages of
the place seized upon him.
“No, let them reach the plain and form in their best order. I wish
to crush them completely.”
Even when the first ranks of the enemy appeared, Mori remained
inactive. They formed quickly and advanced. Still Mori remained
impassive.
When the bakufu troops had advanced half of the mile separating
the two armies, Mori, turning upon the little eminence, whispered in
the ear of his youngest lieutenant. The young man rode off at full
speed to the artillery.
A moment more and the lines of infantry split apart to allow the
passage of forty guns. At full gallop they rushed towards the enemy,
sending up great clouds of dust from the dry plain as they sped on.
Their carriages swayed from side to side without disturbing the pose
of the impassive men seated there. The postilions lashed their
horses.
Mori faced his staff. He smiled with a quiet smile.
“Now we shall see, my lords, how the line holds.”
The officers addressed, thinking he referred to the cannonading,
looked for an unexpected fire from the batteries. None came.
Straight and true towards the heart of the enemy’s lines, the
artillery, drawn by foaming horses, rushed. The enemy’s lines held.
But a hundred yards separated them. It held at eighty; it wavered;
at sixty—it broke.
As if in answer to his unheard command, his flying batteries
whirled in irregular curves, stopped, unlimbered, fired, then with the
speed of wings were off again, this time in retreat.
Again Mori’s infantry lines parted. Out went the twenty remaining
guns, straight for the enemy.
Mori’s lips poured out a stream of orders. His staff flew over the
ground. The whole army advanced to support the artillery attack,
while the boomerang batteries were recovered.
“To the left wing,” cried Mori to Oguri.
Oguri placed himself to the left of the centre, while Mori took the
right. Still in one compactly joined front, the infantry advanced.
“Now, now,” moaned Oguri. “Toro—where is Toro?”
As the line advanced, the artillery, having reloaded, bore down
again upon the enemy’s centre, pounding it.
The infantry neared the bakufu. Mori despatched an officer to
silence the batteries.
Now was the crucial moment. Broken and scattered like a herd of
untrained cattle was the bakufu’s centre.
A cheer sounded in the enemy’s rear. Just at the proper moment
Toro’s cavalry charged the rear, dashing through the centre.
Now a movement of division took place in the forces of Mori.
Oguri’s left divided on the centre and swung to the west, while
Mori’s right swung eastward. The artillery became two corps, one for
each of the divisions; the cavalry, divided, also followed the direction
of the two leaders.
Mori’s forces had sundered the centre of the bakufu and were
rolling up on either side, driving in two opposite directions the
immense army of the shogunate.
As panic and fear spread through the poor-spirited forces of the
bakufu, the cavalry withdrew to pursue fugitives. Mori’s infantry in its
two divisions was now sufficient for the isolating and destroying of
the two segments of the enemy.
At last it was done. The forces of the shogunate were routed or
destroyed at the first battle.
With every mark of his favor, Mori received Toro into his circle of
officers. Toro’s face, black and grimy from the smoke of cannon and
the dust of action and the road, nevertheless was shining.
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