Outside, the brackish dark was stiff with Yanks, overhorny and over here, slow-chewing boys with smooth voices, who liked our girls with jouncy butts and low expectations, and the way they had of boarding the spitting trams with the flirt of a short skirt. Inside, my Aunty Agnes lay in Grandma’s room, recovering, a pallid Irish angel. In a voice surprisingly strong she asked women if they’d like to see her wound. In a corner of the room was her glory box— its use problematical at this stage, and her nighties blossomed in the wardrobe. Other bedrooms had jangly brass…