Back in Dublin a month later, a Fianna Fáil TD approached me in the tearoom at the Dáil one afternoon while I was eating lunch. A rather inconsequential public servant, she had never spoken to me before and took me by surprise, sitting down with a wide smile on her face as if we were old friends and placing her pager on the table, glancing at it occasionally in the desperate hope that it might buzz and make her feel important.
“How are you, Cecil?” she asked.
“It’s Cyril,” I said.
“I thought your name was Cecil?”
“No,” I said.
“You’re not just being difficult, are you?”
“I can show you my ID badge if you like.”
“No, you’re all right. I believe you,” she said, waving my offer away. “Cyril then, if you prefer. What’s that you’re reading?”
I turned the book over to reveal a copy of Colm Toibín’s The Story of the Night. I’d owned it for years but had never got around to reading it until now.
“Now, I haven’t read that one,” she said, picking it up and reading the back. “Is it any good?”
“It is,” I said.
“Should I read it?”
“Well, that’s up to you, really.”
“Maybe I’ll give it a go. Have you ever read Jeffrey Archer?”
“I haven’t,” I admitted.
“Oh, he’s wonderful,” she said. “He tells a story, and that’s what I like. Does this fella tell a story? He doesn’t spend twenty pages describing the color of the sky?”
“He hasn’t so far.”
“Good. Jeffrey Archer never talks about the color of the sky and I like that in a writer. I’d say Jeffrey Archer has never even looked up at the sky in his entire life.”
“Especially now that he’s in prison,” I suggested.
“The sky is blue,” she declared. “And there it is.”
“Well, it’s not always blue,” I said.
“It is,” she said. “Don’t be silly.”
“It’s not blue at night.”
“Stop it now.”
“All right,” I said. I was beginning to think that she thought I was someone else entirely: one of her junior party colleagues perhaps. If she started to talk about votes or internal coups, I’d have to set her straight.
“Now, Cyril,” she said. “Put the book down like a good man while I’m talking to you. I’m glad I caught up with you. I have good news for you: this is your lucky day.”
“It is?” I said. “How so?”
“Would you like me to change your life for the better?”
I sat back and folded my arms, wondering whether she was going to ask whether I had accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior.
“My life isn’t all that bad as it is,” I said.
“But it could be better, couldn’t it? All our lives could be better. Mine could be better. I could be less of a workaholic than I am! I could care less about my constituents!”
“I suppose my hair could stop receding,” I told her. “That’d be something. And I never used to need reading glasses until a couple of years ago.”
“I can’t do anything about either of those things. Have you spoken to the Minister for Health?”
“No,” I said. “I was only joking, to be honest.”
“Well, that’s more his department than mine. No, I’m thinking about something a bit more intimate.”
And Oh Christ, I thought. She’s making a pass at me.
“When you say intimate,” I said, “I hope you don’t mean—”
“Hold on there now, like a good man,” she said, turning around and looking for one of the waitresses. “I’m only gasping.” When no one appeared immediately, she started clicking her fingers in the air and I looked around as the TDs from different parties stared at us in contempt.
“You really shouldn’t do that,” I said. “It’s terribly rude.”
“It’s the only way to get their attention,” she said. “Ever since Mrs. Goggin retired this place has gone to the dogs.”
A few moments later, one of the waitresses walked over with a world-weary expression on her face.
“Is there a problem with your fingers?” she asked. “They seem to be making a terrible racket.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said to the woman, whose name tag said Jacinta.
“Be a dear,” said my companion, touching her on the arm, “and get us two teas, would you? Nice and hot, there’s a good girl.”
“You can get your own tea,” replied Jacinta. “You know where it’s kept. Are you new to the place?”
“I am not,” said the TD, appalled. “I’m on my second term.”
“Then you should know how things work. And what are you doing sitting over here anyway? Who put you here?”
“What do you mean who put me here?” she asked, sounding half-outraged and half-insulted. “Sure don’t I have the right to sit where I want?”
“You sit where you’re told. Get back to the Fianna Fáil seats and don’t be making a show of yourself.”
“I will not, you rude little pup. Mrs. Goggin would never let you speak to me like this if she was here.”
“I am Mrs. Goggin,” said Jacinta. “Or the new Mrs. Goggin anyway. So you can help yourself to tea over there if you like. And if not, don’t expect any to be brought to you. And next time, sit where you’re supposed to sit or don’t come in at all.”
And with that she marched off, leaving my new TD friend looking shocked.
“Well, I never did!” she said. “Such rudeness! And I’ve been on my feet all day trying to provide a better life for the working classes like her. Did you see the speech I gave earlier?”
“You can’t see a speech,” I said. “You can only hear one.”
“Oh, don’t be so pedantic, you know what I mean.”
I sighed. “Was there something I could help you with?” I asked. “Is it a library issue? If so, I’ll be back there at two o’clock. In the meantime.” I picked up the Toibín again, hoping that I could get back to it. I was at a good, dirty bit and didn’t want to abandon the mood.
“You can, Cecil,” she said.
“Cyril.”
“Cyril,” she said, shaking her head quickly. “I’ll have to get that straight in my head. Cyril. Cyril the Squirrel.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please don’t say that,” I said.
“Am I right in thinking that you’re a widower?” she asked, grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“No, you’re wrong,” I said. “Actually, I’m divorced.”
“Oh,” she replied, looking a little disappointed. “I had hoped that your wife might be dead.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I told her. “But no, Alice is alive and well and living in Dartmouth Square.”
“She’s not dead?”
“Not the last time I checked. I had lunch with her on Sunday and she was in fine fettle. Full of insults.”
“You did what?”
“I had lunch with her on Sunday.”
“Why did you do that?”
I stared at her, wondering where on earth this conversation was going. “We often meet for lunch on a Sunday,” I said. “It’s a pleasant thing to do.”
“Oh right,” she said. “Just the two of you, was it?”
“No, her and her husband, Cyril II. And me.”
“Cyril II?”
“Sorry, I mean Cyril.”
“You met your ex-wife for lunch with her new husband, who has the same name as you, is that what you’re telling me?”
“I think you have it now.”
“Well, if you ask me, that’s just peculiar.”