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It was 1985, and the young people were emigrating, leaving for London and Boston, New York.
The times were raw but Furlong felt all the more determined to carry on, to keep his head down and stay on the right side of people, and to keep providing for his girls and see them getting on and completing their education at St Margaret’s, the only good school for girls in the town.
women, with their canny intuitions, were so much deeper: they could predict what was to come long before it came, dream it overnight, and read your mind.
He was touching forty but didn’t feel himself to be getting anywhere or making any kind of headway and could not but sometimes wonder what the days were for.
Did she ever imagine how her life would be if she had married another?
‘If you want to get on in life, there’s things you have to ignore, so you can keep on.’
‘Where’s there’s muck, there’s luck.’
he found himself asking was there any point in being alive without helping one another? Was it possible to carry on along through all the years, the decades, through an entire life, without once being brave enough to go against what was there and yet call yourself a Christian, and face yourself in the mirror?
