Maeve smiles at her. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“She’s way too young for any of that, Mary,” says Mrs D. “She has her studies to finish first.”
“Of course she has. I’m only joking with her. And how is the study going, Maeve?”
“All right, thanks.”
“Maeve is hoping to get into Carysfort College,” Mrs D. explains to Mrs O’Neill and Mrs Maher. “To be a national schoolteacher.”
“Oh. Like her grandmother was, once upon a time,” returns Mrs Maher, and the words are drenched with significance. The shot, obscure to me, finds its target. Mrs D. shrinks back in her chair, away from her pride in Maeve.
“Oh, yes,” says Mrs Maher, thumping her glass down on the table. “I was one of your mammy’s pupils, many moons ago.”
“You’re going a long way back there, Margaret,” Gran doesn’t seem bothered
