“How do you mean?”
“Well, after what his real father did. Alice was lucky that she met a real man in the end.”
“Ah,” I said.
“I prefer a masculine man, don’t you, Alice?”
“I do,” said Alice.
“Me too,” I said.
“It takes a big man to take on another man’s child,” said Peter, slapping a hand down on his knee. “Especially the son of a gay homosexual. No offense, Alice. I meant your ex-husband. No, I admire you, Cyril. I really do. I don’t think I could have done what you did.”
“No offense taken,” said Alice, beaming from ear to ear.
“All I can say is that it’s a good job Liam didn’t turn out like his father,” continued Peter. “Do you think that sort of thing runs in families?”
“Ginger hair can,” said Ruth. “So it’s a possibility.”
“Will you tell them or will I?” I asked, looking at Alice.
“Oh I don’t think either of us should,” she said. “Let’s hear what else they have to say. I’m enjoying this.”
“What’s that?” asked Ruth.
“Alice tells us that you’re a wonderful violinist,” said Peter. “I play the ukulele myself. Have you ever played the ukulele?”
“I haven’t,” I admitted. “Nor have I ever played the violin.”
“Oh I thought that’s what you said he played, Alice,” said Ruth. “Is it the cello?”
“No, it’s the violin,” said Alice. “But you’re thinking of my husband, Cyril, who plays in the RTé Symphony Orchestra. This isn’t him. This is my ex-husband, Cyril. Don’t you remember meeting him before? I thought you realized. It’s been a few years, I suppose.”
“Cyril I,” I said, to clarify things. “Where is Cyril II anyway?” I asked, turning to Alice.
“Don’t call him that. And he’s at home putting the dinner on.”
“Woman’s work,” I said. “I prefer a masculine man.”
“Shut up, Cyril.”
“Am I still invited?”
“If you promise not to run away before we serve the meal.”
“Hold on there,” said Peter, looking back and forth between the pair of us. “This is your ex-husband, is that right?”
“Correct,” I said. “The gay homosexual.”
“Oh but you should have told us!” said Ruth. “We never would have said such things if we’d known that you were the gay homosexual. We thought you were Alice’s second husband. You’re quite alike, the pair of you, aren’t you?”
“They’re nothing alike!” cried Alice. “Cyril II is a lot younger for one thing and much better looking.”
“And a straight heterosexual,” I added.
“Well, we can only apologize. We’d never say such things to a person’s face, would we, Peter?”
“No,” said Peter. “No hard feelings. It’s all forgotten.”
“All right,” I said.
“Of course, I should have realized,” said Ruth, laughing. “Now that I look at that jumper you’re wearing, I suppose I should have guessed.”
“Thank you,” I said, glancing down at myself, uncertain what my jumper had to do with my sexuality. “It’s like Christmas morning here with all the compliments. Oh wait, it is Christmas morning.”
“Am I right in thinking that you work in the Dáil?” asked Ruth.
“That’s right,” I said. “In the library.”
“Now, that must be very interesting. Do you get to see any of the TDs or the ministers?”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “I mean that’s where they work, after all. I see them most days wandering around the place in search of drinking companions.”
“What about Bertie? Do you ever get to see Bertie?”
“Yes, quite often,” I said.
“What’s he like?”
“Well, I don’t really know him,” I said. “Other than to say hello, that is. He seems friendly enough, though. I’ve had a drink with him in the bar a few times and he’s always full of chat.”
“I love Bertie,” said Ruth, putting a hand to her chest as if she needed to control her palpitations.
“Do you?”
“I do. I don’t mind at all that he’s divorced.”
“That’s good of you.”
“I always say that he’s a fine figure of a man. I always say that, don’t I, Peter?”
“Ad nauseam,” said her husband, reaching down and picking up a book that he had left on the table between us, the latest John Grisham. I wondered whether he was going to start back into it now. “You should hear her, Cyril. All day long it’s Bertie this and Bertie that. She’d run off with Bertie if she could. Whenever she sees him on the television, it’s like watching a teenage girl at a Boyzone concert.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” said Ruth. “Bertie’s a lot better looking than any of those lads. The thing is, Cyril, Peter doesn’t like politicians. Fianna Fáil. Fine Gael. Labor. They’re all the same as far as Peter’s concerned. Crooks.”
“Scumbags,” said Peter.
“That might be going a bit far,” I said.
“It’s not going far enough,” he said, raising his voice. “I’d string them all up if I could. Do you never get the urge to take a machine gun in to work and just blow all those politicians away?”
I stared at him, wondering whether he was joking or not. “No,” I said. “No, I don’t. The idea’s never crossed my mind, to be honest.”
“Well, you should think about it,” he said. “That’s what I’d do if I worked there.”
“Cyril will be putting the turkey in the oven around now,” said Alice.
“Cyril II,” I said, clarifying things for Peter and Ruth.
“Don’t call him that.”
“We’re going to our eldest boy’s for dinner,” said Ruth. “Joseph. He works for an animation company, if you can believe it. We don’t mind. It takes all sorts. He makes lovely roast potatoes, though, doesn’t he, Peter? He hasn’t taken a wife yet even though he’s thirty-five. I think he’s very particular.”
Her husband looked at her and frowned, as if this was a matter that needed deep thought. “His roast potatoes,” he said finally, “would stand comparison with those of a Michelin-starred chef. I don’t know what his secret is. He didn’t get it from me, that’s for sure.”
“Goose fat,” said Alice. “That’s the trick.”
“Peter couldn’t boil an egg,” said Ruth.
“I never needed to,” he protested. “I had you for that.”
Ruth rolled her eyes at Alice as if to say Men! But Alice refused complicity and glanced at her watch instead. It was just coming up to noon.
“Your daughter is a credit to you,” I said, changing the subject. “She’s a wonderful mother to young George.”
“Well, we brought her up properly.”
A door to our right opened and a nurse walked out and we all turned our heads in anticipation, but she walked away from us toward the nurses’ station, where she gave an almighty yawn before leaning down to peruse a copy of the RTé Guide.
“I wonder what would make a man want to be a gynecologist,” said Peter in a thoughtful voice, and Ruth threw him a look of warning.
“Be quiet, Peter,” she said.