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so they sent them gallons and gallons of their very best Scotch whiskys, that’s how so!”
    This was greeted by another, longer silence. No one wanted to look a fool in front of his fellow drinkers, but eventually curiosity overcame one of them.
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with the Maltings going belly-up? Sure, all that war-repayments stuff was years ago, wasn’t it?”
    O’Hara nodded as if in agreement. “It was a while back, sure enough, but with all that Scotch floating around America, the Yanks got a liking for it and that put the kibosh on our own Irish whiskey.” He shook his head sorrowfully at the thought of it, but some were yet to be convinced.
    â€œHow come it took so long?”
    O’Hara pricked up his ears—as if he had seen one of his pupils giggling at the back of the classroom. It sounded as if his wisdom was being doubted.
    â€œJaysus,” he exploded in exasperation, “I’m not saying America woke up one bloody morning and said, ‘Right, no more Irish whiskey!’ No, nothing like that. Much more gradual. Scotch became trendy, y’see. The youngsters found it smoother to drink than this stuff.”
    Again he tapped his glass as if to emphasize his point. Then he drained it in one mighty gulp, without flinching. Smacking his lips in satisfaction, he added, “And where America leads, the rest of the bloody world follows. Especially where being trendy and up-to-date is concerned. You only have to think of hamburgers and Coca bloody Cola and you’ll get what I mean. It’s the same with Scotch. Blander with much less flavor than this stuff.” He glared at his empty glass before signaling for another and ended, “But that’s what they want nowadays. Smooth and safe, not sharp and strong like”—he paused dramatically before adding a tiny amount of water to the golden double measure of Irish whiskey and taking a swallow from it that reduced its level by more than half—“like this. I’ll tell you this and I’ll tell you no more, there’s more nature in one ball of malt like this one than there’s in a hogshead of the best bloody stuff that Scotland ever made!”
    The bar sank into an impressed silence, wondering at the fickleness of their fellow drinkers worldwide and its disastrous effect on the huge but dilapidated stone building next door that was The Trabane Malting Company. Then the talk turned to Sean Lynch and his sudden departure for England. This was a topic not just for the regulars at Foley’s Bar but for many of the townspeople. They wondered how the Lynch family were getting along without Sean. Did the family talk about him a lot—or not at all? Did Brona and the children long for the day when he would return or were they glad to see the back of him? Most agreed that the family was the better for his leaving.
    The truth was that Brona had asked herself day and night since Sean had left how she might react if he ever did come back. After the first shock of his leaving, she had gradually come to where she secretly prayed that he would stay away forever. The family was getting along far better without him. There were no more explosions of rage. No more doors slamming or tears shed by the young ones as they were hustled out of harm’s way. While Sean had never actually hit her, his arm had been raised to do so more than once. Her son was working and the girls were doing better at school. She was starting to go out more, meeting friends she hadn’t seen in ages. Of course, as in any small community, some whispered behind their hands that Brona Lynch couldn’t hold on to her husband. But for every one of them, ten more knew that she was well rid of him.
    Father Spillane had been a great help: “God’s will, Brona. Maybe Sean will make a better fit of things across the water. That’s often the way of things, you know. A change of scenery might do him the