She had never felt so grand and fine in all her life. Now and then in her daydreams she had imagined herself successful and had tried to guess how she might feel at such moments. Onstage at Carnegie Hall, with the audience on their feet applauding. Or during a guest appearance on a television show, singing at a camera and knowing she was being seen and heard by millions upon millions of people. She had tried to imagine these feelings, and yet nothing her imagination had summoned up could equal the way she felt now, snug in the upstairs lounge of a Dublin pub, just pleasantly tipsy on fine, rich stout (and the bitter taste had miraculously ceased to bother her by now; she rather fancied it) and singing to a group of excited and responsive persons who hung on to every word and every note.
She wanted to speak but did not trust herself to talk, certain that she would stammer or cry or both. Her emotions were too strong. She could not get hold of them. So instead of talking she tilted her head like a bird and sang like a bird greeting the dawn.
She sang on into the night, song after song after song. She urged the others to trade songs with her, but they refused. Now and then she persuaded them to join in on a chorus, but most of the time she was the performer and they were the delighted audience, and the evening took on a special magic for her. She sang songs from her albums and songs she had not yet recorded, Irish songs and Scottish songs and English and American songs, and when Sean came back with the guitar she seized it gratefully with eager hands and did a quick job of tuning it and began to play. It was a cheap guitar, with none of the resonance of her own instrument, and ordinarily she would have been put off by its poor tonal quality. Now it did not matter. Her fingers plucked at the strings and her throat opened in song and she thought that she could sing forever, that the night could go on for a thousand years and she would never tire of it.
She did not even notice when the last round was called. But the overhead lights went on just as she came to the end of a song, and she saw that the others had got to their feet.
“Oh,” she said.
The barman said, “Closing time, Miss Cameron. A few minutes past, to be truthful, but the last song was worth bending the rules for. Though I wish we could stay open all night.”
“Oh,” she said. She got up from her stool. The music was gone now and the room started to go around in lazy waves.
“You can finish your pint, though, Miss Cameron.”
“Oh,” she said again, stupidly. She reached for her glass, and the room went around again, and she set the glass down untasted. Her hands gripped the bar for support and it seemed to sway before her as if it were made of elastic. “Oh, I don’t think I better,” she said. “Oh...”
“Are you all right now, Miss Cameron? Someone see to her. Miss Cameron—”
“I think it’s just that the last pint was more than she wanted, John,” a voice said. “She’ll be fit in a minute. Come this way, Miss Cameron, and have a seat for a moment.” Strong, gentle hands took her by the shoulders and led her to a chair at the side of the room. She sat down but the room kept making its lazy circles. Sit and talk and watch a hawk making lazy circles in the sky. But it wasn’t a hawk, it was a room, and oh, she felt so funny, and—
“Are you all right now?”
She looked up into the face of the man who had been gazing across the bar at her earlier in the evening. He held her wrists gently, and his eyes met hers. “How do you feel? Not sick, are you?”
“Noooo, I’m not sick.” She peered owlishly at him. “I think,” she said very seriously, “that I think I drank I think too much. Stout. Too much stout.”
She heard an odd sound, like the tinkling of many bells, and then realized with a start that it was her own laughter she heard. Oh, this is so silly! she thought, and she said, “Oh, this is so silllllly!” and exploded into laughter again.
“I’d better get you out into the fresh air,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Some air will be good for you.”
“Okay.”
He straightened up and helped her to her feet. She maintained her balance for a moment, then sagged helplessly against him. “This is so silly,” she said. “Oh, wait a minute, we forgot the guitar.”
“Sean took it.”
“Who’s Sean?”
“The boy who brought the guitar.”
“Oh, that’s right. I think I remember now. I learned a song today about Sean Treacy, except I didn’t learn it yet. It’s on the tape recorder. On tape. Scotch tape. Irish tape. It’s on my Irish tape recorder. When Irish tape recorders are smiling. I don’t know you, sir.”
“I’m David Clare.”
“That’s where the priest came from. Clare, I mean. County Clare. Imagine if he came from County David. You were looking at me before. I saw you.”
“Oh, was I?”
“Uh-huh. Oh, goodness, I’m sure there weren’t so many steps on the way up. You won’t let me fall, will you?”
“No.”
“Mr. County David Clare will protect me from falling. Good evening, Mr. Clare, I’m Ellen Cameron. I’m Miss Cameron and I have the voice of an angel nightingale. I didn’t even like that stout when I first tried it, but with you looking at me I couldn’t just sit there, I had to do something. Imagine if I liked it. Oh, it’s raining again. It always rains. It’s the most wonderful city in the world but it always rains.”
He was laughing. “I think we’d best walk a bit, and then get you something to eat.”
“I didn’t have dinner.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. There wasn’t time.” She walked at his side, breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the fresh, moist air. Her head was clearer now. “I went to the Abbey, and I was going to have dinner afterward but I came here instead.”
“You must be starving.”
She hadn’t been until he mentioned it, but now she was. “No wonder the stout made such an impression on you. You were drinking on an empty stomach. Have you had stout before?”
“No.”
“Did you like it?”
“Not at first.”
“It grows on you, doesn’t it? There’s a café on the next block that should still be open. We’ll get you a couple of lamb chops and some potatoes.”
“And no stout,” she said.
They were alone in the café except for the sleepy-eyed waitress and an old man who sat reading the Irish Press and nursing a cup of tepid tea. She had two lamb chops and two rashers of bacon and a plateful of chips and a cup of fairly good coffee. The food helped. When they left she was still lightheaded, but her stomach had settled down and the world no longer dipped and swayed before her eyes. She felt grand but very tired, and he read her mind to say, “I’d better get you home. Where are you staying?”
“The White House. It’s on Amiens Street — in Amiens Street, I mean. That’s how you say it here, isn’t it? Are you from County Clare, sir? Or are you a Dublin lad? Am I a Dublin girl?” She held his arm and peered up at him. “I think,” she said, “that the stout hasn’t entirely worn off.”
“I suspect you’re right.”
“But you didn’t tell me. Are you from Dublin?”
He hailed a taxi, helped her into it, and took a seat beside her. He gave the driver her address and lit two cigarettes, passing one of them to her. “Sure, and can’t you tell me birthplace by me brogue? And isn’t it in the pure tones of the west that you hear me speaking to ye?”