"My father is a tenant. All he wants is to buy his land." He paused. Everybody was nodding. That was all right, then. He could shut up. But even as he relaxed, the image of his father and Mrs. Budge came into his mind. Then he thought of his mother, and of her anger, too. He'd told them the truth-but not the whole truth. Did Father MacGowan know that? Was he, as he might have been in the confessional, waiting for something more, wanting the good stuff? As if sensing his hesitation, nobody had spoken yet. He looked down at the table, and then-fool, no doubt, that he was- he let his conscience lead him. "But the truth is that neither he nor my mother will really be happy until every Protestant Englishman is out of Ireland, and Ireland is free."

Ah. It was said. A tiny intake of breath seemed to pass round the table. Had he just destroyed himself? Certainly he'd just contradicted, and probably annoyed, the newspaperman who might, perhaps, have given him a job. He had failed before he had even started. He was doomed.

The Count, knowing nothing of such mundane matters, seemed pleased. Gogarty, understanding better, cheerfully leaped in.

"He's absolutely right, of course," he cried. "I'd have said the same thing. But do you know what I fear most, when we have our independence?"

"I don't," said Sheridan Smith with a smile, appreciating what was done, "but I know you're going to tell us."

"That terrible Lady Gregory," said Gogarty with feeling.

People laughed. "Unfair," said Sheridan Smith. "Cruel, Gogarty." But Willy did not laugh. He knew that Gogarty spoke half in jest, yet still the jest affronted him.

Lady Gregory, the widowed Galway landowner who, all alone, had set herself to learn the Irish language.

She was not alone. There was quite a movement, nowadays, to celebrate the rich Celtic heritage of Ireland. The image-the magnificence of the old illuminated books, the Celtic crosses and artefacts with their echoing designs-that was easy to admire. But the word: that was harder. The Irish language was not an easy thing to learn, unless you had it from birth. It had been prevalent in the west, but the great exodus and dislocation of the Famine had reduced the Gaelic tongue to the corners of Connacht and the wilder places nowadays. Many had thought that the language might be lost.

Yet dedicated men had rescued it. Yeats, the poet, had caught its inspiration and mined its lore. Hyde, a Protestant son of the manse with a German wife, had founded the Gaelic League-Conradh na Gaeilge, to save the old language from extinction, and now it was promoted widely. He'd even scandalised Trinity College when he'd announced his mission "to de-Anglicise the Irish Nation."

Yet it was Lady Gregory, only a woman, and outside the charmed circle, who'd performed, it seemed to Willy, the most important task of all. Delving not only into the spoken language, but into the often obscure and complex forms to be found in medieval manuscripts, she had collected all manner of ancient texts and from them culled ancient Irish tales that had first been written down, quite likely, not long after the time of Saint Patrick. Then she had translated them into English. The first collection, concerning the great warrior Cuchulainn, had been published a year ago. He had been lent it by a friend, and read it avidly. Another collection was due shortly.

"She has given us back our ancient heroes," he said quietly.

"I don't deny that," said Gogarty. He smiled slyly. "Have you noticed, by the way, that the greatest enthusiasts for the Irish language all seem to have English names: Yeats, Gregory, Hyde? But I will tell you my objections to Lady Gregory, for I have two.

"The first objection is to her idiom. She says it is the idiom of the local people of Kiltartan. It may be so. But when you take the syntax of Irish and translate it directly into English, the effect is unnatural. I do not say: 'There would be great grief on me indeed' if some disaster occurred. Nor can I feel much for a hero who declares: 'It is not trusting to a woman's protection I am in this work I have in my hands.' It is stilted. Page after page, it becomes cloying. I have the right to make this complaint, for my own name, Gogarty, is certainly Celtic. And I do not want my ancestors to be Kiltartanised. Now Yeats, who is quite as well versed in ancient Irish as Lady Gregory, never plays such games. He writes in modern English. But he is a great poet."

Willy was silent. He did not know what to say to this. But Father MacGowan had the authority.

"Fair, up to a point," he said. "But I take note from your own excellent verses, Gogarty, that you abhor the usual, dull pentameters of English as spoken by the English. The English spoken by Irish people has a special richness, and a rhythmic beauty that have yet to find a champion. Nonetheless, Lady Gregory, whatever her limitations, has performed a remarkable service to Ireland, and is to be applauded, not mocked."

"I accept what you say. Hear my second objection, then. I fear this Gaelic revival, that she is part of, because it is not Ireland." He waited a moment, for effect.

Willy frowned. The Gaelic revival went far beyond things literary. For most people, indeed, it meant the promotion of Gaelic sports, like the ancient and noble game of hurling. The Gaelic Athletic Association had attracted a large following in the last twenty years.

"You dislike the GAA?" he asked.

"Not as such. But why is that, if a member of the GAA is seen, even once, playing a game like cricket, he is expelled?"

"You must allow some natural reaction against the domination of England," said Father MacGowan.

"I am Irish," replied Gogarty. "I couldn't be more so. But I do not care to be so circumscribed. What is it to be Irish anyway? Is it to be Celtic, whatever that is? I should think half the blood of the Irish was Viking anyway, before the English came. Do you know that one in six Irish names is Norman? But what really concerns me is the desire, in turning away from England, to look inward into this small island, instead of outward. Through all our history, we have been involved with wider shores, with the great culture, the religion, and the trade of Catholic Europe. I fear that this Gaelic fixation demands that, as an Irishman, I become something less than an Irishman is."

And now a most remarkable thing occurred. The Count rapped his hand on the table.

"Ah," he cried. "Aha!" Even Sheridan Smith started in surprise. Nobody knew the high-born personage could become so animated. "That is right, young man. Do not forget us, the Wild Geese, the great Irish community of Europe."

Willy gazed at him. He'd always heard of the Wild Geese, those gallant men who had flown away out of Ireland two centuries ago, rather than live under English rule. But he had never thought to see one. So this strange, aristocratic figure was a Wild Goose. Somehow, it wasn't what he'd expected.

The Count, however was waxing eloquent by now.

"There's not a Catholic country, not a city where you won't find us. Military men and counsellors, priests and lawyers, merchants and traders, too, no doubt, but always men of honour, held in respect. And we never forget. We are still Irishmen. You will find us at the Irish colleges in the capitals. It was emigres who founded the Irish Franciscan College of Prague, you know. And, if I may say it, no nation has garnered greater honours. Numerous Irishmen have worn the Order of the Golden Fleece-that which there is no higher. Two hundred knights of the Spanish Order of Santiago. As for titles . . ." His eyes assumed an almost dreamy, mystical expression: "Burkes and Butlers, Leslies and Taafes, Kavanaghs, Walshes- the Counts von Wallis, you know, are the Walshes of Carrickmines. There are so many. As for my own family, there are numerous barons Byrne. We ourselves, the counts Birne, as we spell it now, were O'Byrnes originally, before we left."

"And which of the many O'Byrnes would that be?" asked Father MacGowan.

"We had quite modest lands," the Count replied. "You probably won't know of the place. It is called Rathconan, up in the Wicklow Mountains. A family called Budge has it now," he remarked with an aristocratic shrug. "I know nothing about them."

O'Byrne of Rathconan? Willy stared in amazement. It had never occurred to him to connect this fastidious nobleman with his home. And then another realisation hit him. Damn it. And we thought that the place was ours.

So awesome and exotic was this aristocratic catalogue that, even here in the not-to-be-sneezed-at surroundings of Wellington Road, it reduced the table to silence.

Until, Willy could have sworn, there emanated from old Mrs. Smith, who so far hadn't said a word, a distinct sniff. But now that she did speak, she spoke quietly.

"It's strange to me," she said, "that no one has mentioned the most important place of all. For there are two Irelands, not one." She was an old lady, in comfortable circumstances, but it seemed to Willy that under her pale old face, there was something calm, yet strangely cold, and absolute. "If my husband, God rest his soul, had not saved me, most of you wouldn't be here. I'd have died in the Famine in Clare, along with the rest of my family." She looked at Willy. "Do you know how many left Ireland for America in the decade of the Famine?" She did not wait for a reply. "Three quarters of a million. And in the ten years after? Another million. And a constant stream since then, year after year. There are two Irelands: Ireland in Ireland, and Ireland in America. And America remembers the Famine." She glanced at Sheridan. "Your cousin Martin Madden in Boston collects money for Ireland. Did you know that?"

"I didn't actually."

"My brother William's son. He is quite prosperous now, I believe. He collects money. And it will be collected and given as long as there are people in Ireland who want to be free of England. The English may try to kill the Irish in Ireland with kindness, but they will never appease the Irish in America."

"Or those in Australia," added Father MacGowan, softly, "but they are too far away."

"To whom does Martin Madden give money, might I ask?" said Sheridan Smith.

"To those who need it," his mother answered, with a grim finality.

"Oh." He looked embarrassed.

The Count glanced at the old lady curiously.

"I'd better go and see to my daughter," said the Countess.

"We're all done, I think," said Sheridan's wife.

"Perhaps," said Father MacGowan, "I'll stretch my legs. Gogarty, have you a moment?" He gave Sheridan Smith a meaningful look as he and Gogarty went out, and indicated Willy.

"Oh yes," said the newspaperman, glad to change the subject. And a moment later he drew Willy aside.

He didn't need to know much about him, he told the young man, to set him at ease. A recommendation from Father MacGowan was quite enough. Did he know what he wanted to do with his life? Well, nor had he at that age. "How can you possibly tell," he asked obligingly, "until you've tried a thing or two?" There were some small jobs at the newspaper where a young fellow could get a look at things, so to speak. Not much pay, of course. Could he continue to live with his uncle and aunt? Good. Hmm. He'd never sold anything of course. "But you might find a talent for it. I've a good man who sells advertising space for the paper. To tradesmen, mostly, and that sort of thing. Advertising is very important to a newspaper, you know. You might go round with him for a bit. Learn the ropes." There would be other things to do about the place, as well. Would that suit him?

Indeed it would.

"Splendid then. Come into the office tomorrow morning. Oh." The newspaper man's eyes were suddenly riveted on the doorway. He stared. So did Willy.

The little girl who had just come in with the Countess must have been five or six. She was pale and slim; she had a cascade of raven hair. And a pair of green eyes, emerald green, that seemed to generate a light of their own. Willy had never seen any eyes like them.

"She's better," said the Countess.

"I'm hungry," said the child. "Hello Great Granny." She ran over and kissed the old lady.

"I'm your Great Uncle Sheridan," said Sheridan. "You were tiny when I last saw you. Do you remember me?"

"No," said the child. Then she gave him a brilliant smile. "But I shall now." She turned to Willy. "Who are you?"

"I'm just Willy," said Willy.

"How do you do, Just Willy. My name is Caitlin. That's because I'm Irish."

"Just Caitlin?"

"Oh." She laughed. "I see. I am Countess Caitlin Birne."

"I am Willy O'Byrne."

"Really?" She glanced at her father for guidance. "Are we related?"

Sheridan Smith intervened smoothly.

"Father MacGowan is outside, he's just sent in word that you should accompany him back. Come, I'll take you to the door." At the door, however, he detained Willy for a minute. "Going round Dublin, of course, you'll meet all kinds of people. Some are better to know than others. You can always ask me, if you wish."

"Thank you," said Willy.

Sheridan Smith nodded.

"One small word of advice, perhaps. Not to be shared, you understand? Not even with Father MacGowan." He paused, while Willy listened respectfully. "Do you know his brother? He keeps a bookshop."

"Only by sight."

"Good. Well, take my advice. Avoid him."

As he walked back through the mist which, with the hint of coolness developing in the autumn afternoon, seemed ready to close in upon them again, Willy was lost in thought. So many sensations, so many discoveries in a short space of time: his mind was still trying to take them in. Then the strange shock of meeting the most beautiful child he'd ever seen; and the unexpected warning: he hardly knew what to make of it all.

And how curious that the old lady should be a Madden from Clare. His grandmother, he knew, had been a Nuala Madden from that region. But he'd seen a photograph of her, and she looked nothing like the old lady he'd just met. Well, Madden was a common name in Connacht. He was no more likely to be related to the old lady than he was to the Count.

Yet still, in the misty afternoon, he could not escape a sense that the whole world were covered by some hidden skein of relationships, under the ground perhaps, or above the mist, like flocks of birds, eternally migrating back and forth.

"What are you thinking?" asked the priest.

"I was thinking, Father," he replied truthfully, "of the strange interrelatedness of things."

"Ah. Indeed. It is one of the ways, you know, by which we may discern God's Providence."

"Yes," said Willy. "I suppose so."

"And the further proof," the priest added cheerfully, "is that you have a job."

The months that followed were exciting ones for Willy. He did as he was told, toured the city looking for advertisers, and made himself useful to Sheridan Smith, who after a few months pronounced himself satisfied. He was even given a small increase in wages. His aunt and uncle were glad to receive his rent.

Sheridan Smith also kept an eye out for him in other ways. "Here's a book I reviewed. I don't want it myself. Give it to someone if you don't want to read it," he'd say casually. But he noticed that his employer always chose well for him. He obtained the next volume of Lady Gregory's work in this manner and, Kiltartan English or not, immersed himself joyfully in the stories of the Children of Lir, Diarmait and Grania, the Fianna, and many others. And when the good lady and the poet Yeats opened their new Abbey Theatre, he would push a ticket at Willy and remark, "They send us these complimentary tickets sometimes. Go along if you want to."

Several times during the summer, he had been up to see his family; and during these visits, he had had some long conversations with his father. Mrs. Budge was up at Rathconan in the summer, but often in the winter months now, she would go into Dublin, where she had taken a small house at Rathmines. From there, she would make sorties into the city centre. "She has even more opportunity to be insane in Dublin than she does here," his father remarked bitterly. His father avoided her as much as he could nowadays. But nonetheless, there was something he wanted from her; and after much discussion, it was he who finally suggested: "Go and talk to her in Dublin if you like, then, Willy. You may do better than I can."

It was not until late the following year, however, that Willy finally ventured out to see Mrs. Budge at Rathmines. Her house was modest-two-storey over basement, with a small garden in front made lightless by some large evergreen bushes. He went up to the front door and was ushered in by a maid that he didn't know. She must have been hired in Dublin. She asked him to sit on a chair in the narrow hall.

He wondered whether Mrs. Budge would be the same in Dublin as she was up at Rathconan. There she had developed a reputation for increasing eccentricity. "She knows what's going on, mind you," his father had told him. "If a cow's not milking well, she'll know it before you do, and God help you if anything's mislaid." But the turban seemed to have permanently attached itself to her head now, and she had taken to reading strange books that were reputed to be occult.

Once, about a year after she had arrived, she had gone to the nearest Church of Ireland church. Normally, the Protestant clergymen were only too grateful for any extra congregation they could get. Gladstone had disestablished the Church some time ago now, so they lacked the official backing they had enjoyed before. The number of Protestant landowners was falling, and nobody, in Rathconan at least, had ever heard of anyone being converted by a clergyman to join that church. He may therefore have looked up hopefully at the sight of Mrs. Budge, even with her turban on, sitting in his church one morning. Her conduct was not encouraging, however. She had sat, and she had continued to sit. Her face was neither approving nor disapproving. She might have been a dispassionate observer from a far-off land. Somewhat to his relief, he had not seen her since. Mrs. Budge's Dublin residence had a front parlour, or drawing room, which connected to a dining room that faced the garden at the back. When he was ushered into the front room, Willy noticed at once that the curtains were half drawn, so that the space was shadowy. There was a fire burning in the grate, and a lamp beside her wing chair provided the light by which, evidently, she had been reading the newspaper. On one wall there was a picture, of the early nineteenth century, depicting a view of Rathconan. On another, a sporting print and, not far from it, the sepia photograph of an erotic Indian wall carving that he remembered seeing in the big house. Did she take it with her, he wondered, like a talisman? On a low table were some theatre programmes. It seemed that she went to musicals, as most people in Dublin did. But beside one of these he saw a pamphlet on which, he was almost sure, he could make out the words "Theosophical Society." If she entertained in here, it was obviously her personal den. Perhaps her visitors were part of a coterie of some kind. His father swore she had seances. It might well be so.

She was wearing a turban, this one made of a cloth with a brownish paisley design. She had an Indian shawl round her shoulders. She had not changed much down the years, except that her face was worn a little looser now.

"You are quite a young man, Willy," she said.

He glanced at a chair and she indicated that he should sit in it. He did not feel intimidated. His time out in the commercial world of Dublin had given him a certain confidence, and, as he had reminded himself, this was business after all. He had also developed a fairly pleasing manner. Very politely, but clearly, he explained the matter in hand. "I have come, Mrs. Budge," he said, "on behalf of my father."

The terms offered by the new Wyndham land legislation were really quite extraordinary. The price to be paid for land was twenty-eight times the annual rent. A landowner accepting this money, in a single, immediate payment from the government, would almost certainly be able to invest the proceeds at a higher return. The tenant was not required to make any down payment at all. And the government asked only a three percent mortgage rate, payable over sixty-eight years. Quite apart from the fact that even a modest rate of inflation would reduce these payments to trivial sums, the effect would almost certainly be a sharp reduction in the tenant's outgoings. To all intents and purposes, the government was using some of the wealth it had acquired from its empire to buy out the Ascendancy and return its lands to Irish hands. It was hardly surprising then, that the numbers taking up the offer exceeded anything seen before by a factor of about twelve times. The prediction of Sheridan Smith looked likely to be born out: some people were guessing that a third or more of the entire island might change hands.

Carefully, and very politely, Willy outlined the legislation. He explained that the terms were so remarkable that both his father, and doubtless she herself, could hardly wish to pass them up. He stressed, albeit untruthfully, the affection his father had for the Budge estate, and how he desired to live in harmony with them. Nothing would change, except that all the parties would be better off. He did it respectfully and very nicely. She listened to him carefully. When he had done, she was silent for some time. Then she half smiled.

"Do you believe, Willy," she asked, "in the transmigration of souls?"

He stared at her, hardly comprehending at first.

"I'd have to ask Father MacGowan," he managed at last. "But I don't think so."

"You should study it," she cried. "It is a most interesting subject. I was wondering what you might have been before this life. I myself . . ." She did not divulge what it was that she had been. Probably something too exotic for humble ears to hear. "We are all," she glanced towards the sepia photograph on the wall, "more than we imagine. Here in Dublin, many people are taking an interest in Theosophy, you know. Mr. Yeats himself has been a student of the subject. We are all connected, you see. These things only become clear as we achieve spiritual enlightenment. Buddhism, Hinduism, even Christianity: they are all related. That is the path to the future, I do believe. We think too much of material things."

Were her own thoughts connected? It was hard to tell. But he recognised her well enough, as a general type. Clearly she had decided to become a Dublin eccentric. There were quite a number of them. He supposed such people existed in other places, too, but Dublin, with its special leisurely pace, seemed to encourage their growth.

If you had nothing else to do, perhaps if you were a little short of money-and who was not?-then to be an eccentric was an easy passport through the rest of your life. You could get away with anything.

Then, suddenly, he saw through her. She had nothing else to cling on to, of course. He understood that. Her land up at Rathconan was what she was. She would never give it up. This talk of spiritual things was nothing but a tatty old screen to hide her real intentions.

"And my father's land?" he asked.

"I'll have to think about that, Willy. But we're all very well as we are. Tell your father that. These things are quite temporal," she cried, as if that signified something.

He bowed his head. The maid showed him out.

The old woman thinks she's fobbed me off, he considered to himself. But she hasn't. For now, this is war.

He was walking along from Trinity towards Merrion Square the following day, wondering how to write to his father, and what account of the meeting he could give him, when he noticed that the green door of MacGowan's bookshop was open. He did not think that he had ever seen it open before. By its very nature, it seemed to him, it should be closed. And simply because of this unusual circumstance, he decided to go in. Why not, after all? Sheridan Smith might have told him to avoid the owner, but that wasn't, surely, a prohibition against even looking at the books there. Besides, he was curious to see whether he would still find MacGowan as daunting as he had when he was younger. He entered.

MacGowan was sitting at a table at the back. He was examining a volume, evidently trying to decide how to price it. He was smoking a cigarette that was hardly more than a stub. Willy noticed how stained the bookseller's fingers were with nicotine. He went to a bookshelf. In front of him was a book of sermons by some eighteenth-century divine. He took it out and pretended to look at it.