The Polish girl who cleaned after hours was leaning against the bannister, texting. When he heard someone coming, he pushed through the door to the stairwell. m., he had most of the rejection letters printed on letterhead and was waiting by the elevator. The final round was extremely competitive, and we regret to inform you that on this occasion . . .īy 5 p. The selection committee has now convened, and made its decisions. Thank you for your application for a Bursary in Visual Arts. When he felt a bit steadier, he went to the basin and splashed water on his face, and slowly dried his face and hands on the paper towel that fed, automatically, from the dispenser. For a while he sat looking at the back of the door, on which nothing was written or scrawled. A flash of something not unlike contempt charged through him then, and he got up and walked down the corridor to the men’s room, where there was no one, and pushed into a stall. Not meaning to, he closed the budget-distribution file he’d been working on without saving it. He could have sat on one of the benches there for a while and watched the swans and the cygnets gobbling up the crusts and other bits and pieces people threw down for them on the water. He wished, now, that he had gone out at lunchtime and walked as far as the canal. When he looked back at his screen, it was 14:27. Down on the lawns, some people were out sunbathing and there were children, and beds plump with flowers so much of life carrying smoothly on, despite the tangle of human conflicts and the knowledge of how everything must end.Īlready, the day felt long. When a shadow crossed, he looked out: a gulp of swallows skirmishing, high up, in camaraderie. A taste of cut grass blew in, and every now and then a warm breeze played with the ivy on the ledge. All morning, a brazen sun shone down on Merrion Square, reaching onto Cathal’s desk, where he was stationed, by the open window. On Friday, July 29th, Dublin got the weather that had been forecast.

Claire keegan book