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Margaret weaved her way round the assorted revellers standing by the bar, tray held unsteadily in her outstretched hands, and headed for the table where the Jenny Dangs were seated. Curiously, they looked up to see who was approaching.

Simone, on returning to their table drinkless, had enigmatically told the curious, not to mention thirsty troupe that an admirer had insisted on paying for the drinks and would be fetching them over imminently, but despite their queries refused to divulge the person's identity. From their seats, because of the throng, they could not see the bar, and they waited to see who would emerge. Naturally expecting the admirer to be male and in his early twenties, the band were nonplussed when a thirty-year old plus woman hove into view and settled at their table, dispensing drinks.

"Hi," Margaret said, awkwardly.

"Hello again," said Simone, reaching for her lager, "guys, this is... sorry, I don't think I caught your name."

"Margaret,"

"Yes, Margaret. Margaret thinks I'm the most beautiful thing she's ever seen. Thing, note, not person. More beautiful than The Three Graces, Margaret? More beautiful than the Sistine Chapel ceiling? More beautiful than Shakespeare's poetry?"

"Good god," Margaret replied, "you're quick to take offence aren't you? I've only spoken to you twice and I've apparently managed to insult you both times."

Realisation dawned on Don. "Is this the Fiddlenose woman?" he cried. Padraig raised his glass in mock salute and Marie glanced defensively at the stranger, appraising her in the light of this knowledge. Jim sat silently, unsure of the atmosphere, or how this meeting was turning out.

Simone laughed, and the atmosphere lightened immediately. "Yeah, fair play, you've got a point there. I won't give you a hard time. Let's start afresh. My name's Simone, this is Dan, and Jim, and Padraig, and this is my fiddle sister, Marie." As she introduced each of the Jenny Dangs they gave Margaret their own salutation: a brief nod from Padraig, a bellowed "hi" from Jim, a non-committal raised eyebrow from Don and a polite, distanced "hello" from Marie. Margaret returned each greeting with a forced smile, her unease evident from her stiff disposition and excessive formality.

"So," continued Simone, "did you see tonight's gig as well?"

"Yes I did. I thought it was much better than the last one." Margaret stopped in her tracks, a look of horror flicking across her face. "Not that I'm saying the last one was bad, quite the opposite, it was 3;"

"It's okay," laughed Simone, and the others followed suit; even Marie, shy, uncertain Marie joined in the laughter. "No offence taken. This time." Margaret smiled, her shoulders relaxed and she sipped her drink. "We thought it was a really good set as well," Simone continued. "Didn't we, guys?"

"Best we've ever done," concurred Jim.

"Best audience we've ever had. Best reaction."

"Spot on,"

"Yes," said Margaret. "The set went down really well."

"And why d'you think that was, Margaret?" asked Don pointedly. He mistrusted this woman. What was she doing? Simone was the "most beautiful thing in the world." What kind of thing was that to say to a complete stranger?

"Well," said Margaret, not recognising the suspicious undertone, "what I loved the first time was the unity of the playing. You were sharp together. And that was there tonight as well, but as well as that there was a freshness, an uninhibitedness about it. It didn't sound rehearsed. It had the joie de vivre of an unrehearsed jam and the structured polish of a rehearsed set. Difficult combination to pull off, but you did it.

"And," she continued, "I thought that musically, each of you was on excellent form. The rhythm guitar was beautifully restrained, but very powerful. Again a hard combination. The other night there were a few flashy bits, a few flatted fifths which don't work for me, some jazzy minor chords, and such. There were fewer of those tonight. Can't think of any, actually. And you mostly use dropped D tuning: that makes your playing much more sympathetic to the music. The percussion was excellent too. It was miked up too loud the other night, which made it intrusive. And a lot of reverb at times. The sound was spot on tonight. It was for everyone, actually, which helped too. And Marie was outstanding. You've got such a raunchy, driving style," Margaret addressed the young woman, "which works really well in the ensemble pieces. A wonderful, thrilling melody line being driven on by the beefy rhythms."

Margaret paused for breath, and realised that the band were silent, staring at her. Embarrassed, she pressed on.

"And you played a beautiful tune in E minor tonight you didn't play the other night. Haven't heard it before, but it sounded traditional. It was lovely. That was where you're guitar really shone, Don. It would have been easy to go over the top with jazz funk rhythms for that, which would have ruined it. You kept it wonderfully simple, a basic 3/4, no embellishments, with dropped D tuning. It added power to the tune without detracting from the melody."

Don was surprised. He had asked the question with the intention of tripping the woman up, showing her to be shallow and superficial; he hadn't expected her to give much in the way of a coherent answer. That she had given a cogent reply, and that most of what she said was accurate, caught him off-balance.

"You could be a reviewer," he replied drily.

"Wish she was," laughed Marie. "We could use reviews like that." The mood was beginning to relax, the suspicion that most of the band initially felt dissipating into a mild curiosity. First Don and then Padraig went to the toilets, and as they returned Margaret was edged up the bench so that she was now seated in the middle of the band, next to Simone. She could smell the younger woman's perfume, Diorella.

"And Padraig," Margaret continued, being careful to pronounce his name correctly, "you have a remarkable style. The way you combined that percussive technique with the delicate picking of the melody in the E minor tune was extraordinary. It was like two different people, on two different instruments. I swear if I'd heard it on a record and not seen it with my own eyes I would have said it was done by two different people."

"That's our Padraig. No one body could contain an ego that size," Don interjected. Even Padraig was a touch embarrassed by this effulgent praise, however, and in his haste to change the subject he overlooked Don's barb.

"You haven't mentioned Simone in your summing up," he pointed out.

"Oh Christ, I'm too scared to do that. God knows how she'll take it."

Everyone laughed.

"Nice one," roared Jim.

"Yeah, one false move and you'll be wearing that lager."

"Brownie's honour," Simone laughed, "I won't take offence. Not unless it really is offensive 3;"

"Well," Margaret paused, "I was disappointed you didn't play The Otter's Holt tonight."

"Told you," shouted Jim triumphantly. "I said we should have played it."

"I heard it the other week," continued Margaret, "and thought it was the most stunning version of it I've ever heard. It's always been one of my favourite tunes: I used to play it myself at one time. But your version was out of this world. The tune has a wonderful quality. I can't quite explain it: hope, I think, it just exudes a sense of hope, a feeling that all is well, or all is nearly well, or all could soon be well. It's on the edge of happiness, a promise, a premonition of future joy."

"Wow, philosophy," said Jim.

Simone stared at Margaret, an enigmatic look on her face. Don, who knew her better than anyone, couldn't read it, couldn't fathom what she was thinking. And Don, too, was perplexed. What was this? Was this some elaborate come-on?

"You seemed to disappear into yourself when you played it. I guess the concentration was so fierce you just shut out everything around you, went into a cocoon, just you and the tune."

"Yeah," said Simone, "something like that. That was the first time we'd played it live. I wasn't entirely happy with it; we're still working on it, which is why we didn't do it tonight. Did you say that you used to play yourself? What, in a band?"

"No, nothing as formal as that. I used to play in a pub session every week at the Three Tuns. Irish stuff. There were about eight of us regulars, and some who turned up now and again. We weren't much good really, but it was good fun. Most of the pub locals used to hate it when we turned up: too much bloody noise, disturbed their doms, but the landlord encouraged us because we drank a lot."

"What do you play?" asked Don.

"Guitar, like you. I've got a tenor banjo as well, but I could never get the hang of it, somehow. And I did a bit of singing, too, at one time."

"Cool," said Simone. "You'll have to give us a tune later on."

"Not a chance," laughed Margaret. "Haven't played for about three years now."

"Give us a song then. Bet you still sing. In the car? In the bath?"

"In the bath, yeah. Great acoustics. Appreciative audience too: myself, I mean."

"Of course. So you can give us a song later, then. That's agreed."

"Ha! I'll need a few more drinks before I do that."

"Excellent idea," chimed in Padraig, rattling his empty glass on the formica cover. "Whose round?"

"I'll get them," said Margaret. "To show my appreciation for the gig tonight."

Margaret squeezed out of her seat, gathered the empty glasses on the tray and headed through the by now thinning crowd to the bar. The Jenny Dangs looked at one another. Padraig gave an expressive shrug of his shoulders, at which the others burst into spontaneous laughter.

"She seems alright, this admirer of yours," said Jim.

"Good looking, too," teased Padraig. Don remained silent, picking restlessly at a frayed thread on his Doctor Marten boot. Marie, too, looked pensive

"Yeah," said Simone. "And at least we're getting some drinks out of it. Play our cards right and we could be on freebies all night. Hey-up, here she comes back."

By the time they finished the next round of drinks it had gone closing time, and the Arts Centre bar was empty apart from the Jenny Dangs, Margaret and the bar staff. Don went to the bar and had a brief discussion with Greg, the barman. He turned and nodded at the group, and dug into his pocket for his wallet.

"Lock-in!" he exclaimed a few moments later, setting the drinks on the table. Lock-ins were known to be reasonably regular occurrences at the Arts Centre. Deep in the bowels of the building, it had no external windows through which tell-tale lights could be seen and, anyway, the Police cast a blind eye to it, knowing that whatever late night drinking went on was regulated and never got out of control. Greg the barman appreciated his music, and since he rarely got to hear the gigs upstairs, was happy to let bands play on into the night in impromptu jam sessions in his cellar bar, at which he would invariably get out his own, battered twelve-string guitar.

Padraig and Jim disappeared upstairs, and returned a couple of minutes later carrying an assortment of instruments; contentedly, the band settled down to play.

"Now then," said Simone, wiping her fiddle neck with a cloth and easing her bow from the case, "what was it you were disappointed not to hear tonight? "The Otter's Holt" set, wasn't it? Let's go, then, one, two, three, four 3;"

The fiddle duo scraped the opening bars of "Music in the glen", the first tune in "The Otter's Holt" set, and immediately it was obvious that the band were relaxed and comfortable. For all that Simone had said she wasn't satisfied the arrangement was finished, it was an enchanting piece, and neither Margaret nor Greg could imagine how it might be improved. Freed of the nerves from performing, buoyed by the good spirits and friendly banter, the Jenny Dangs flung themselves into the music with abandon, quickly becoming oblivious of everything but their instruments and their music.

Tune after tune flew by, sometimes played by the whole band, sometimes by one of the main instrumentalists with only Don adding backing, and on a couple of occasions solo pieces by Padraig and Marie; and in between each tune, just as important as the music itself, was the talk, the jocular, animated, convivial chat of friends comfortable with each other and with the moment.

Sessions are timeless; they take on an existence of their own, outside the normal laws of physics. What seems like five minutes in reality takes an hour; the funniest jokes, the wittiest remarks, the tartest replies float into the ether and disappear, too perfect to be trapped by time; one tune melts into another, and then another, and then another, a beautiful, fluid, organic process, the distillation, simply, of joy, the creation of happiness. The session is a moment. A moment which lasts all night.

Greg, as expected, fetched his twelve string guitar and added some powerful and mostly inappropriate backing to a few of the tunes. Nobody minded: the session is no place for prima donnas, and even Padraig, the most likely to become precious if he thought his music was being compromised, relaxed and let the music flow around and through him.

After his fourth whisky, Greg even unleashed his party piece, a seldom heard but surprisingly competent rendition of Leo Kottke's classic "Side One Suite" from "Guitar Music". He started nervously, because despite his banter and jocular dismissiveness of his musical accomplishments, he practiced for a couple of hours every day, and this ten minute piece was his touchstone, the mastery of which he had aspired to since the day, fifteen years before, when he first heard it: this was his Everest. His intensity shone through, and the band recognised what most didn't, appreciated his devotion to his music and rewarded him at its conclusion by a sustained ovation, standing on the tables and bar counter, whooping and stamping their feet in perfect 4/4 time. Greg, embarrassed beyond words, but prouder than he had been for many years, could only quell their enthusiasm by pouring another round.

And so the chaotic, frenzied, wonderful and personal session spun round. Each of the Jenny Dangs was in their element, alive, buzzing, living through their music, senses at fever pitch. Margaret, seated amongst them, must have thought she had gone to heaven. And then, inevitably, things swung towards her.

"Margaret, your turn," shouted Jim.

"Yes!" concurred Padraig. "Give her the guitar, Don."

Margaret looked aghast, a flicker of terror crossing her face. Even Jim, not the most perceptive of souls, recognised it.

"Don't worry," he said. "Tell me what it is and I'll accompany you. No sweat."

Margaret still looked uncomfortable, and tried to deflect the conversation by requesting they play the E minor tune. Simone touched her on the arm lightly and leaned towards her. Margaret sat back and their heads nearly touched.

"Relax. It's Christ knows what time in the morning, we've been drinking for hours, everyone's on a high. Go with it. No-one's judging anyone here. It's just the music. The music's all that matters."

Margaret looked long and hard into Simone's eyes, and Simone returned the stare, implacable, calm, resolute.

"Okay," she said.

"Yo!" yelled Jim. "Give her that guitar, man."

"No, I don't want a guitar. I'm going to sing a song. I'll do it unaccompanied, but if you want to help me Don, it's in D."

The group was silent now, attentive, supportive. Greg moved aside to give Margaret more room. Her hands clasped on her lap, Margaret looked downwards, focussing on the ashtray, for want of anything better to look at, and prepared herself.

And began to sing.

"I wonder what is keeping my true love this night
I wonder what is keeping him out of my sight
I wonder if he knows of the pain I endure
And stays from me this night I'm not sure."

She began tentatively, her voice reedy and shrill, slightly sharp on the high notes. Despite what she had said earlier, Margaret had never sung in public before. Gradually, as the song progressed, she relaxed and grew into it. It wasn't a perfect rendition: she had sung it far better thousands of times in the privacy of her own bath, but she acquitted herself well.

"The spring grass grows the greenest and spring water runs clear
I'm sorry and tormented for the love of my dear
Your love it lies so lightly as the due on the thorn
That's there in the evening and away with the dawn."

"Sorry and tormented" was Margaret's favourite quote, and as she sang the words she freed herself, unwittingly, from all her inhibitions and gave full rein to her expressive voice. She soared, she explored, her voice plumbing the depths of despair as she sang of unconditional love spurned. Don, who had begun by giving a fairly raucous backing for Margaret, realising her unease, gradually reined himself in as the song progressed, an ironic reversal of the usual role of the rhythm guitar.

"Away with the dawn," repeated Margaret, and slowly, achingly trilled the song to its conclusion. Don, who knew it, concluded with a resonant picking of the final few notes and they fell silent. Margaret, the song over, her creative muse departed, was revisited by all her old anxieties, and could scarcely bring herself to look up.

The cheers, whoops and stamps told her what she wanted to hear. It had gone down well. Margaret looked up at the excited, drunken, merry faces of her new-found friends, her heart thumping in her chest, eyes seeing but not really taking it in. There was no denying it, this was no polite applause. Margaret had been accepted.

"Su-u-u-perb," shouted Jim.

"Lovely stuff," said Greg.

"You have an amazing voice, you really do," said Marie.

"Nice one, great song," said Padraig.

"Cool, really nice. I enjoyed that," said Don, nodding his head

Margaret looked from face to face, happier than she could remember for a long time. Tonight had seemed a long journey, a difficult process, but it had borne fruit.

"That was gorgeous," said Simone. "You've a lovely voice. You should use it more." She leaned forward and pecked Margaret lightly on the cheek.

On to next story:The Meeting: Margaret's version