He imagined his wife feeding her lover with information about his provincialism. She liked to tell people things; she talked a great deal. Boland had inherited a bakery in the town he had referred to, one that was quite unconnected with the more renowned Dublin bakery of the same name. A few years ago it had been suggested to him that he should consider retitling his, calling it Ideal Bread and Cakes, or Ovenfresh, in order to avoid confusion, but he saw no need for that, believing, indeed, that if a change should come about it should be made by the Dublin firm.
‘I want to thank you,’ Lairdman said, ‘for taking this so well. Annabella has told me.’
‘I doubt I have an option.’
Lairdman’s lips were notably thin, his mouth a narrow streak that smiled without apparent effort. He smiled a little now, but shook his head to dispel any misconception: he was not gloating, he was not agreeing that his mistress’s husband had no option. Boland was surprised that he didn’t have a little chopped-off moustache, as so many Dublin men had.
‘I thought when we met you might hit me,’ Lairdman said. ‘I remarked that to Annabella, but she said that wasn’t you at all.’
‘No, it isn’t me.’
‘That’s what I mean by taking it well.’
‘All I want to know is what you have in mind. She doesn’t seem to know herself.’
‘In mind?’
‘I’m not protesting at your intentions where my wife is concerned, only asking if you’re thinking of marrying her, only asking if you have some kind of programme. I mean, have you a place up here that’s suitable for her? You’re not a married man, I understand? I’ll have another J.J.,’ Boland called out to the barman.
‘No, I’m not a married man. What we were hoping was that – if you’re agreeable – Annabella could move herself into my place more or less at once. It’s suitable accommodation all right, a seven-room flat in Wellington Road. But in time we’ll get a house.’
‘Thanks,’ Boland said to the barman, paying him more money.
‘That was my turn,’ Lairdman protested, just a little late.
She wouldn’t care for meanness, Boland thought. She’d notice when it began to impinge on her, which in time it would: these things never mattered at first.
‘But marriage?’ he said. ‘It isn’t easy, you know, to marry another man’s wife in Ireland.’
‘Annabella and I would naturally like to be married one day.’
‘That’s what I wanted to put to you. How are you suggesting that a divorce is fixed? You’re not a Catholic, I’m to understand?’
‘No.’
‘No more am I. No more is Annabella. But that hardly matters, one way or another. She’s very vague on divorce. We talked about it for a long time.’
‘I appreciate that. And I appreciated your suggestion that we should meet.’
‘I have grounds for divorce, Lairdman, but a damn bit of use they are to me. A divorce’ll take an age.’
‘It could be hurried up if you had an address in England. If the whole thing could be filed over there we’d be home and dry in no time.’
‘But I haven’t an address in England.’
‘It’s only a thought, Fergus.’
‘So she wasn’t exaggerating when she said you wanted to marry her?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever known Annabella to exaggerate,’ Lairdman replied stiffly.
Then you don’t know the most important thing about her, Boland confidently reflected – that being that she can’t help telling lies, which you and I would politely refer to as exaggerations. He believed that his wife actually disliked the truth, a rare enough attribute, he imagined, in any human being.
‘I’m surprised you never got married,’ he said, genuinely surprised because in his experience cocky little men like this very often had a glamorous woman in tow. He wondered if his wife’s lover could possibly be a widower: naturally Annabella would not have been reliable about that.
‘I’ve known your wife a long time,’ Lairdman retorted softly, and Boland saw him trying not to let his smile show. ‘As soon as I laid eyes on Annabella I knew she was the only woman who would make sense for me in marriage.’
Boland gazed into his whiskey. He had to be careful about what he said. If he became angry for a moment he was quite likely to ruin everything. The last thing he wanted was that the man should change his mind. He lit a cigarette, again offering the packet to Lairdman, who again shook his head. Conversationally, friendlily, Boland said:
‘Lairdman’s an interesting name – I thought that when she told me.’
‘It’s not Irish. Huguenot maybe, or part of it anyway.’
‘I thought Jewish when she told me.’
‘Oh, undoubtedly a hint of that.’
‘You know the way you’re interested when you’re told about a relationship like that? “What’s his name?” It’s not important, it doesn’t matter in the least. But still you ask it.’
‘I’m sure. I appreciate that.’
