“Since 1922, when the Oireachtas held their first meeting in Leinster House.”
“Fascinating,” said Charles, and, in fairness to him, he did sound rather interested. “So you were present for the foundation of the state?”
“I was, yes.”
“That must have been some day.”
“It was,” agreed Mrs. Hennessy, her voice softening a little now. “It was very exciting. I’ll never forget how happy we all were. And Mr. Cosgrave, of course, was cheered by all sides of the House when he stood up to make his first speech as President of the Executive Council.”
“Christ alive, that’s thirty years ago,” said Turpin, shaking his head. “How old are you anyway? You must be getting on a bit, are you?”
“I’m sixty-four, Mr. Turpin,” she replied sweetly. “Thank you for asking.”
“I would have guessed somewhere around that,” he said, nodding. “You have that look that a lot of women your age get. All jowly, do you know what I mean? With dark bags under your eyes. And as for the veins on your legs, you must have got them from standing in the tearoom all day long. No offense meant, of course.”
“How could I possibly be offended by such a gallant speech?” she asked with a smile.
“An intriguing place to work all the same, wouldn’t you say?” said Charles. “All those important men going to and fro every day. You must hear a lot of secrets there, am I right?”
“If I did, Mr. Avery, do you think I’d let any of them escape my lips? I haven’t kept my position for three decades by being indiscreet.”
“But you’re to retire soon, or so I heard,” he continued. “And please, no more Mr. Avery. I’ve told you, it’s Charles.”
“I am indeed planning on retiring toward the end of the year,” she admitted, narrowing her eyes. “Do you mind if I ask how you knew that?”
“Well now, I haven’t built this house by being indiscreet either,” he said, winking at her. “Let’s just say that a little bird told me. How’s the pension fund anyway? I hope you’ve been careful. You could have a good many years ahead of you yet and you’ll want to be well looked after.”
“I believe I’ve been prudent,” she said coldly.
“I’m glad to hear it. Money matters when one is getting older. You never know when you might fall ill. You hear some terrible things about what happens in hospitals. If you ever need advice, feel free to ask me.”
“I think we’ll wait to see how the trial works out first, don’t you?” she said. “Before I consider coming to you for financial advice.”
“Do you want to be a banker too, Cyril?” asked Masterson. “Like your daddy there?”
I looked toward Charles, waiting for him to point out that I was not a real Avery, just an adopted son, but he said nothing, simply picked at his food and threw me a look that said You can answer.
“I don’t think so,” I said, staring at my plate and pulling my foot away when I felt Wilbert’s shoe touching mine beneath the table. “I haven’t really thought about it. I’m only seven.”
“A wonderful age,” said Wilbert. “My favorite of all the ages between six and ten.”
“He’s a fine-looking lad all the same,” said Turpin, turning to Maude. “He’s the image of yourself.”
“He looks nothing like me,” said Maude, which was reasonable enough.
“Ah he does now,” insisted Turpin. “You can see it around his eyes. And in his nose. He’s his mammy’s son.”
“You’re a very perceptive man, Mr. Turpin,” she replied, lighting another cigarette as the ashtray next to her began to spill over onto the linen. “The justice system will certainly benefit from your being on the jury.”
“I’m not sure if you’re aware of it,” said Charles, “but my dear wife here is one of Ireland’s foremost lady novelists.”
“Oh, Charles, please don’t,” she said, waving her hand in the air to shush him but only succeeding in sending more smoke down the table, causing Mrs. Hennessy to turn her face away and clear her throat.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but I must tell our guests. I’m so proud of Maude, you see. How many novels have you written now, darling?”
A long pause. I started to count the seconds in my head and I reached twenty-two before she spoke again.
“Six,” she said finally, “and I’m working on my seventh.”
“Isn’t that great all the same?” said Turpin. “It’s great to have a hobby. My wife knits.”
“Mine plays the accordion,” said Masterson. “An awful bloody racket. My first wife, though, could ride a horse like Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet. She was the spit of her too, everybody said so.”
“You’ll be on the tea towel one of these days,” said Turpin.
“The tea towel?” asked Maude, frowning.
“You know, the one that all the tourists buy,” he explained. “With the pictures of the Irish writers on them.”
“That will never happen,” said Maude. “They don’t put women on that. Only men. Although they do let us use it to dry the dishes.”
“Who was that lady novelist who pretended she was a man?” asked Turpin.
“George Eliot,” said Wilbert, taking off his glasses and wiping them with his handkerchief.
“No, he was a man,” said Masterson. “But there was one who was really a woman but said she was a man.”
“Yes, George Eliot,” he repeated.
“Whoever heard of a girl called George?”
“George Eliot was her pseudonym,” said Wilbert patiently, as if he was speaking to a backward but attractive boy in his schoolroom.
“Then what was her real name?”
Wilbert opened his mouth but no words emerged.
“Mary Ann Evans,” said Mrs. Hennessy before things could get too embarrassing. “Actually, I’ve read one of your novels, Mrs. Avery,” she added. “By pure chance. Nothing connected with your husband’s trial. One of the girls at the tearoom gave it to me as a birthday present last year.”
“Oh dear,” replied Maude, looking like she might be ill. “I hope you didn’t read it.”
“Of course I did. What else would I do with it, use it as a coaster? I thought it was very beautifully written.”
“Which one was it?”
“The Quality of the Light.”
Maude pulled a disgusted face and shook her head dismissively. “I should have burned the manuscript of that one,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote it.”
“Well, I liked it,” said Mrs. Hennessy. “But you’re the author and if you say it’s terrible, then I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it. I must have misunderstood it.”
“You should dismiss the girl who gave it to you,” remarked Maude. “She obviously has very poor taste.”
“Oh no, she’s my right-hand woman,” replied Mrs. Hennessy. “I’d be lost without her. She’s been with me seven years now. In fact, she’s due to take over the management of the tearoom when, as Mr. Avery so rightly pointed out, I retire later in the year.”
“Well, better a tearoom than a library, I suppose,” said Maude. “Now look, are we going to sit here all evening making small talk or are we going to get to the heart of the matter?”