The Teacher at Donegal Bay. Anne Doughty

Telly.’

      I put down briefcase and basket and hunted for change. The newsboy had no mac, only the worn jacket of a suit several sizes too big for him. I put coins into his damp, outstretched hand and read the headline as I picked up my things.

      Thank God for that. The march was off. I didn’t read the details. The fact was enough. One less thing to worry about, for Keith and Siobhan would certainly have marched in Derry and everyone knew the police and B Specials had orders to teach them all a lesson.

      ‘You’re a coward, Jenny McKinstry,’ I said to myself and wondered if it was really true. Would I have the courage to march if I were a student, like Keith and Siobhan, or would I need to be as politically minded as they both were. Or was the problem more that I was one half of ‘a respectable young couple’?

      That was the phrase on the bank manager’s file. Though it was upside down and in small print, I had managed to decipher it that day when he interviewed Colin about the loan for the car we were hoping to buy. We had laughed over it all the way back to our borrowed flat, where our worldly goods were stacked high, awaiting their final destination. It became a joke between us, a couple of words that encoded a moment in time, when we were happy, looking forward to our new jobs, and our first proper home.

      I had stepped into the bookshop before I quite realised it. I turned round at the sound of my name.

      ‘Hello, Mr Cummings. My goodness, you’re busy this afternoon.’

      ‘Indeed, we are,’ he agreed, nodding vigorously. ‘Never known the place so busy. Come on down to my wee office. It might be best if I lead the way!’

      I followed the tall, stooping figure between the book-lined aisles to the newly constructed and unpainted cubicle he dignified as an office. Beneath the sloping roof there was space for neither filing cabinets nor cupboards, but from rows of hooks on every vertical surface hung clips full of invoices, pink and yellow and blue. From beneath a small table piled high with similar clips, he drew out two stackable stools.

      ‘Do sit down, my dear. I think we’ve got them all, but we’d better make sure.’

      He unhooked a clip, flipped through it deftly and extracted a sheet of pink paper. I glanced quickly down it and breathed a sigh of relief.

      ‘Wonderful, Mr Cummings. You’ve got the whole lot. I don’t know how you’ve managed it but I’m so grateful. I really was caught out, you know.’

      He smiled broadly and settled back on his stool. ‘You shouldn’t make your subject so popular, Mrs McKinstry. Look at the problems it gives your poor bookseller when you come in and tell him your classes have doubled.’

      I laughed easily at his mild complaint. Mr Cummings was an old friend. For years we had shared our passion for poetry and our enthusiasm for the young Ulster poets we both knew personally.

      ‘You’re very good to take all this trouble over such a small order. Three knights sharing a single copy of Richard III does rather cramp the dramatic style!’

      He laughed and nodded at the bulging clips all around us. ‘There’s no lack of orders these days,’ he said flatly. ‘And you could hardly believe the sales on the fiction side. But it’s the quality that counts, isn’t it?’ he ended sadly.

      I nodded silently. When his pleasant face shadowed with regret like this, I always thought of my father. They were probably about the same age, but whereas my father had an air of wry humour about him whenever he reflected upon his life, Mr Cummings always spoke as if his plans had never come to anything and it was now too late in the day to hope for anything better.

      ‘Another year, Mrs McKinstry, and the quality of business won’t be bothering me. At last I’ll be able to read all the books I’ve never had the time for.’

      I saw the sadness deepen. I was wondering what I could possibly say when he checked himself and turned towards me.

      ‘Which reminds me,’ he went on briskly. ‘What’s this I hear about Miss McFarlane retiring? To the best of my knowledge, she still has several years to go. I remember taking her by the hand to the village school when I was in the top class. Surely she isn’t serious?’

      ‘I think Miss McFarlane’s mother has been unwell a great deal recently,’ I said cautiously.

      I saw his lips tighten and his head move in a curious little gesture he always made when someone, or something, had really upset him.

      ‘Quite a character, old Mrs McFarlane,’ he said shortly. ‘She must be nearing ninety now.’

      His tone told me that what I’d heard in the staffroom about Connie was probably not exaggerated after all. At the age of fifty-seven, her mother, it appeared, still treated her like a child. Each morning she got up at 6.30 a.m. to light the fire and see to her mother’s needs before she left for school. After school, she did the shopping and the housework. At weekends, Mother liked to be read to and taken for drives in the countryside. Of all this, Connie never spoke, though just occasionally she would refer to ‘Mother’ in excusing herself from an evening engagement.

      ‘A great admirer of yours, Mrs McKinstry. I’m sure you’ll miss her when she goes.’

      ‘Oh, I shall indeed. She’s been so kind to me since I came to Queen’s Crescent.’

      ‘So, it is true.’ He nodded to himself and looked quizzically at me over the curious half-glasses he always wore in the office. ‘Another new face, perhaps? Or perhaps not. Perhaps a face I know very well?’

      I blushed. For all his rather formal manners and old world air, Mr Cummings missed very little.

      ‘Perhaps, Mr Cummings,’ I began awkwardly. ‘You’ve guessed, of course. She is going. I have been offered the Department. Miss Braidwood wants to advertise right away, so I’ve got to decide this weekend. It’s not an easy decision.’

      He looked so puzzled that I wondered if he’d forgotten about young couples and families.

      ‘It would be a big responsibility indeed,’ he offered finally. ‘But very rewarding, I’m sure,’ he went on quickly, as if he were happy to be back on firmer ground. ‘With the new building, I expect you’d have all kinds of resources.’

      I nodded and told him about the English workshop and drama areas already planned for the new building on the outskirts of the city. He listened attentively, but when I finished he reminded me that a Department is only as good as the people who run it. He said he was sure he knew who Connie would want.

      ‘The trouble is,’ I began uneasily, ‘I’m not a free agent. Everyone talks about equality, and women pursuing their own careers these days, but attitudes don’t change that quickly. As far as most of my family and relatives are concerned, we might as well be living in eighteen sixty-eight as nineteen sixty-eight,’ I said, a sharpness in my voice that quite surprised me. ‘Of course, my husband’s very understanding,’ I corrected myself hastily. ‘But his family’s a different matter. It’s a touch of Dombey and Son, you see. Or rather Grandson, to be precise.’

      Suddenly, I was aware of time passing. I stood up abruptly. Mr Cummings rose too.

      ‘It’s hard, Mrs McKinstry, I know it’s hard,’ he said as we shook hands. ‘But remember, you’ve only got one life to live. You can’t give your best if your heart’s not in it.’

      He looked so incredibly sad that I stopped where I was, ignoring the press of customers around the entrance to his tiny cubicle.

      ‘I needn’t talk, you know. I did what others wanted of me. But there’s a price to pay. It can cost you dear for the rest of your life.’ He released my hand, suddenly aware he was still holding it, long after the handshake could properly be said to have ended: ‘If you take the job, I expect I shall have to call you Madam,’ he added, with an awkward attempt at lightness.

      ‘If I take the job, Mr Cummings, you’ll have to call me Jenny,’ I replied.

      He