On the other side of the bench, slouching so his back almost touched hers, the driver flicked his whip. This was better than the stuffy train, at least.
She put up her steel-frame umbrella against the drizzle. Lib settled herself on the single bench down the middle, her boots hanging closer to the right-hand wheel than she liked. An Irish misnomer nothing jaunty about this bare cart. He carried her trunk to what he called the jaunting car. But that was some years ago, so her ear strained now to make out the driver’s words. A train from London to Liverpool the steam packet overnight to Dublin a slow Sunday train west to a town called Athlone. The journey was no worse than she expected. May there be no frost on your potatoes, nor worms in your cabbage. Nár mille an sioc do chuid prátaí, Go raibh duilleoga do chabáiste slán ó chnuimheanna. For our daughter, Una, an old Irish blessing:
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