It was an evil night.
In the early morning I, who had never thought to see a dawn again, caught a glimpse of Dublin Bay.
The shattered boatload poured along the platform. I stood by the small luggage while my husband went to pounce on the rest from the hold. A long-lipped porter weighed up my wealth.
“What time does the train go?”
“Half-seven.”
“It’s been a choppy night.”
“It has.” An Irishman never says yes or no. I learned that quickly. “Here’s himself coming back.”
My husband turned up. “You’ve been christened Himself,” I said. “I’m going to call you that while we’re in Ireland.”
“Do you feel pretty bad?” he answered.
“Awful.” I subsided on an unknown person’s luggage. Himself wandered about, and the long-lipped porter, having decided we were worth while, wandered after him doing as little as possible.