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Updated: June 19, 2025
He glanced at his watch, and saw that he could not now catch the train by which he had intended to return to Ballyards. "I'll go and get my tea somewhere," he said, and then, "I don't think I'll come to Belfast again. I'm tired of the town!" He turned into Royal Avenue and passed across Castle Junction into Donegall Place where there was a shop in which new books were sold.
And an old woman, with a shawl happed about her head, had gazed after Uncle Matthew and said, "The poor creature! Sure, he's not right!" The arrest and trial of Uncle Matthew had created a great scandal in Ballyards, and responsible people went about saying that he had always been "quare" and was getting "quarer." Willie Logan's father had even talked of the asylum.
He had never been to a theatre in his life, but Uncle Matthew and Uncle William, when they were young men, used frequently to come to Belfast from Ballyards to see a play, and they had told him of the great pleasure they had had at the "old Royal."
"Her aunt lives in Ballyards ... Mrs. Cleeland!..." "Oh, yes. Is that her aunt?" "Aye. Well, me an' her has been going out together for a wee while past, and she says now she's goin' to have a child!" John burst into laughter. "What the hell are you laughing at?" Willie demanded angrily.
Then in a brisker tone, as if he were consoling himself for his losses, he said, "Oh, well, there's consolation for everyone somewhere if they'll only take the trouble to look for it, and after all I've had a queer good time reading books!" "Mebbe, Uncle Matthew," John suggested, "if you'd left Ballyards and gone to London, you'd have had a whole lot of adventures!"
"And if you think you can do better in London ... or America nor you can in Ballyards ... well, you're right to ... to go, aren't you?" "That's what I think, ma!" John answered. She did not say any more, and he sat at the table, tapping on it with a pencil.
I always said we would be," John said. "It's frightfully funny," Eleanor replied. "Isn't it?" He did not answer. He took her in his arms instead. Ask, is Love divine, Voices all are, ay. Question for the sign, There's a common sigh. Would we through our years, Love forego, Quit of scars and tears? Ah, but no, no, no! The honeymoon at Ballyards had been a triumph for Eleanor.
Is it printed yet?" she said. He told her of his work, and of the Creams and of Hinde. He told her, too, of his life in Ballyards. "Where do you come from?" he said. "Devonshire," she answered. "My father was rector of a village there until he died. Then mother and I lived in Exeter until she died!..." "You're alone then?" he asked. "Yes. My mother had an annuity. That stopped when she died.
Or he might turn Nationalist and divert himself by roaring in the House of Commons against the English! He wished that he could write poetry ... if he could write poetry, he might become famous. There was an old exercise book at home, full of poems that he had made up when he was much younger, about Ireland and the Pope and Love and Ballyards ... but they were poor things, he knew, although Mr.
Why not? We shall be able to pay the rent and have a profit out of what we shall get for sub-letting it." "Making a hotel out of your home," Mrs. MacDermott said in disgust. "Och, we're not all home-mad," John retorted. "That's the pity," his mother rejoined. Three weeks later, Eleanor, and Mrs. MacDermott departed for Ballyards.
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