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exchange.
    â€œSorry, sir, but the boss is out just at the moment. I’ll have to ask Larry, he might know if we have it.”
    A moment later he was summoned. “Larry, come here will’ya. This gentleman is looking for his relish. Do you know anything about it?”
    Larry thought for a moment. The only relish he knew of was from Yorkshire. He plucked a bottle of YR sauce off a nearby shelf and offered it to Linhurst. “Is that what you wanted, sir?”
    Linhurst pursed his lips to hide his amusement. To laugh would have been unforgivable. He should have realized that Patum Peperium, better known as Gentlemen’s Relish, might not feature on Norbert’s shelves. Nevertheless he was very partial to it smeared across his morning toast. The tartness of anchovy paste with its hint of lemon was just the thing to kick-start his day. That morning he had used up the last of the jars he had brought from London. In what now seemed a moment of madness, he had resolved to seek it out in Norbert’s supermarket. His predicament now was how to decline the bottle of YR, a sauce he particularly loathed, without offending either the girl on the checkout or the gangly youth in the long brown coat. It must have been at least forty years since he had seen a “shop” coat like that.
    â€œEr, no, thank you very much. That’s not quite what I wanted. Could I have an Irish Times instead?”
    As he was leaving, he turned back to the girl. “Oops, I nearly forgot. I have to get cigarettes for my daughter. Trouble is, I don’t smoke, but I vaguely remember what the packet looks like. It’s white with a small, red square. Does that make any sense?”
    Here Maire was on firmer ground. “Sounds like Silk Cut to me. Silk Cut Red, in fact.”
    She plucked a packet from the shelf above the cash register. Norbert believed in keeping cigarettes well away from shoplifters. Maire inquired politely, “Do you think her packet looked like that?”
    Linhurst hesitated, then murmured uncertainly, “Ye-e-s, I think so. To be honest, they all look pretty much the same to me, but I think those are the ones.”
    â€œOne packet, then?” Maire was anxious to resume honing her checkout skills before Norbert returned.
    â€œBetter make it a carton. Actually, make it two cartons, if you don’t mind.”
    He paid by a platinum Visa card, the first one Maire had seen.
    *   *   *
    Foley’s Bar was next door to The Trabane Malting Company. Both had opened their doors within a month of each other over a hundred years ago, and neither had changed much since. The pub was lucky in that it had a captive market, being the only one in the village, whereas the Maltings had to compete in a wider market. This it had managed to do until a few years back, when the demand by the distillers of Irish whiskey for malted barley dropped off noticeably. So noticeably in fact that all further investment by the owners ceased, and jobs were being shed regularly. First the seasonal workers were let go, then last year the first of the full-time employees were dropped from the payroll.
    The drinkers at the counter were discussing this when O’Hara, the schoolteacher, intervened.
    â€œSure, if the English hadn’t had to pay back all that money to America after the last war, things might be different round here.”
    His listeners looked mystified but unimpressed. No one questioned O’Hara’s assertion, however, because of his famous short temper.
    After another long silence, O’Hara held up his glass of whiskey and tapped it knowingly. “All because of this, lads, all because of this innocent drop of malt!”
    The others remained silent as the grave, taking sips from their creamy pints of Guinness as they pondered this. After what seemed like an eternity, one of them was moved to ask, “How so?”
    â€œThey’d no money to pay America, y’see,