So Late in the Day: Stories of Men and Women

by Claire Keegan

The woman could cook; even now, he had to say that much for her. But a part of him always resented the number of dirty dishes, having to rinse them all before stacking them in the dishwasher – except for the roasting dish which she usually said they could leave to soak overnight, and was still there in the sink when he got back from work on Mondays.

One afternoon, as they were walking past Lidl, she wanted to stop and buy cherries to make a tart but didn’t have her purse. Cathal had said it was all right, that he would pay. She’d taken a metal scoop and weighed out a half kilo which, when they reached the cashier, came to more than six euros.

When they had gone back to collect it, some weeks later, on a Friday evening, an additional charge of 128 euros plus VAT was added for the resizing.

He slipped his belt off and pushed all the cushions to one side of the couch, and punched them together. There was no need for all those cushions; six of them, on one couch.

‘And that night you bought the cherries at Lidl, you told me they cost more than six euros.’

thought of those cherries and how she had halved and stoned them that evening he’d asked her to marry him and how she’d made the tart, and what his going over their cost, that six euros, had cost him.

‘Cunt,’ he said. Although he couldn’t accurately attach this word to what she was, it was something he could say, something he could call her.

happily she turned out the light knowing that tomorrow would be hers, to work and read and walk along the roads and to the shore.

What had begun as a fine day was still a fine day, but had changed; now that she had fixed a time, the day in some way was obliged to proceed in the direction of the German’s visit. She went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth and thought of him, standing outside. She could quickly change out of her nightdress, go out and tell him to come in and the day would, again, be hers. Instead she sat at the hearth and poked the ashes in the grate and stared at a large glass jug on the mantel. She

At seven o’clock, she felt a strong urge to write but told herself it was not something she could do, because of the German professor.

He could neither create conversation nor respond nor be content to have none. She thought the least he could do was chat, which, in her opinion, was where all fine conversations began.

She felt great fortune, now, in not having married any of these men and a little wonder at ever having said she would. She

She went over the passages where his beautiful wife was offering him broth and, in doing so, realized she was hungry.

The book didn’t hold her interest; she could already predict the ending. Beyond

the pot. A miracle it was still alive.