Our marriage. On the one side of the church, the rather elegant and choice individuals who had travelled to see Mai wed, her aunt Maria Sheridan from Cavan, the one with the connection to Collins, encased in a brocaded day dress, giving her a slightly ironclad look, but very smart. Mai’s other aunts from Roscommon, Cavan and Leitrim, glinting in the holy gloom of the chapel, with small dots of gold and ruby light playing on old rings and necklaces and bracelets. And chief before all, her resplendent brother, Jack, the doctor from Roscommon, lofty, silk-hatted, confident, and silent. He was a man Mai adored, and he was said to adore her, even if he was a rare visitor, being devoted to fishing the rivers of Roscommon, and shooting at the wildlife there. He was six foot six in his stockings, I knew, and in every way he was as impressive to me as her father had been, and I prayed he would approve of me.All of these souls sitting on their side with the easy, rather solemn, occupying air that in other circumstances would have put me in suspicion that they were actually Protestants.On the other side, my side, my very dapper brother Tom, in his best suit, tailored by my father of course, and no tailor in Dublin could have made a better one, even if it was a few years out of date, strictly speaking, but, if he looked provincial, nevertheless it was provincial with a touch of pleasing swagger about it.
