The River Capture. Mary Costello

poor cratur …’ Luke says.

      So much conversation is phatic, social, he thinks. We must be the most accomplished race at saying nothing, and doing it with charm.

      ‘He’s very timid … worse since Mikey went away. I don’t know if he’ll ever come right.’

      He steals a look at her. Slim, small-chested. Five foot four, at the most. The opposite of Maeve. They wouldn’t be a match, physically. He could pick her up.

      ‘Did you say you live in Dublin?’

      ‘Yes, but I come and go.’

      ‘Have you brothers or sisters? Maybe I know them.’

      ‘No brothers. Two sisters, and my mother. My father is dead about five years.’

      They are silent then. There is something disquieting about the silence. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he gets an immense feeling of foreboding.

      She looks around the room. ‘Are you the book-lover in the house?’ she asks. When she lifts her eyes to him he swims in them. Green, vivid green. He has to look away.

      ‘I am.’

      He waits.

      ‘What do you do?’ she asks. ‘Are you a farmer?’

      ‘Not really. Well, not at the moment. I lease out the land. I’m a teacher.’

      ‘Ahh,’ she says, nodding. ‘Primary or secondary?’

      ‘Secondary. English. English and history actually, but mostly English. I teach in Dublin at Belvedere College. I’m on a career break at the moment.’

      ‘Really?’ Her eyes widen and she smiles. ‘I work in Summerhill and the North Strand area. I’m with the HSE.’

      ‘Ah, you’re only up the road from Belevdere then!’ They might have passed each other on the street, stood together at a bus stop. ‘What do you do in the HSE?’ He is trying to avoid looking at her breasts.

      ‘I’m a social worker. Child welfare and protection. I work with kids and teenagers – troubled ones – and their families. And with kids in care. That’s my catchment area – the north inner city, your neighbourhood. Very different kids to the ones you teach though, I’d say.’

      ‘A bit, all right. Though we have a few local lads coming to us too.’

      They stand looking at the dog. Now the silence becomes a force field around them.

      Soon she will leave.

      ‘Poor devil,’ he says, about the dog. He sneaks another look at her.

      ‘My mother thought she’d be able to keep him,’ she says. ‘But our own dog won’t tolerate him … And this fella is not one to fight his corner. I’ve been at home on holidays for the last fortnight so he’s gotten attached to me. But I can’t take him back with me. He’d be alone all day, it wouldn’t be fair.’

      He leans forward and offers the dog the back of his hand. The dog stiffens with fear. He imagines the little heart beating against the ribcage.

      He can keep the dog. He can do what he likes. He can fill the house with dogs, if he likes. No one’s business. What people see – the big house overrun with cats, the walls coming down with books, the place going to wrack and ruin.

      ‘I’ll keep him,’ he says.

      ‘Thank you,’ she says. He can hear the gratitude and relief in her voice. ‘I’m really grateful.’ She looks down at the dog, smiles affectionately. ‘You’re very lucky, buster! … I’ll leave you my number and if it doesn’t work out I’ll come and take him back, I promise. And the girl in SuperValu, Katie, said she’d help – if you need to go away or anything, she said she’d mind him.’

      When she stands and draws her body upright his eyes fix on her legs and thighs and he feels a powerful physical sensation, as if he is pulled upwards with her legs and thighs – pulled up by the force of her body, up into her.

      She takes her phone from her jeans pocket. He clears his throat. For a moment he cannot recall his phone number, then calls it out haltingly, uncertainly, and she taps her screen. In the hall, his own phone pings.

      He stands in the doorway until her yellow car disappears from view. The sun streams into the hall. He listens for sounds inside the house. He steps into the hall and whistles lightly, then calls ‘Paddy’. But the dog does not budge. Even when Lily pokes her head around the door he does not stir.

      All afternoon Luke leaves him alone. He clatters about the house, opening and closing doors noisily, talking animatedly to Lily. He tries to hear what the dog hears – the distant human voice, the echoes, the footsteps.

      Later he enters the drawing room and sits on the sofa, reading. Now and then he tries to coax the dog from his spot. Finally, he lifts him gently – the animal stiffening in his hands – into an old wicker basket and carries him outside to the old servants’ kitchen in the yard. He places the basket in a corner where the sun slants in through a high window. He places a bowl of water beside him, and, closing the door behind him, leaves the dog in peace.