“How new?”
“This is my fourth day.”
“The virgin waitress,” said Julian, breaking into a broad grin, and I glanced across at him, scandalized by his choice of words, but Bridget seemed pleased with the flirtation and was ready to give back as good as she got.
“That’s as much as you know,” she said. “They say Elizabeth I was a Virgin Queen but she was putting it about to every man left, right and center. I saw a film about her with Bette Davis.”
“I’m more of a Rita Hayworth man myself,” he said. “Have you seen Gilda? Do you go to the pictures much?”
“I’m only saying,” she said, ignoring his question. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. Who are you anyway? Do you have a name?”
“Julian,” said Julian. “Julian Woodbead. TD for Dublin Central. When you’ve been here a few weeks, you’ll get to know all our names. The other girls do.”
She stared at him and I could see that she was balancing in her mind the sheer impossibility of a boy his age being an elected representative while, at the same time, considering how ludicrous it would be for him to be making such a story up. In the right light, he could have passed for older than fourteen—not enough that any sensible person would believe he was a TD but enough that a new girl in the tearoom might be anxious enough about challenging him.
“Is that right?” she said suspiciously.
“It is for the moment,” he replied. “But there’ll be an election in a year or two and I think my days might be numbered. The Blueshirts are giving me an awful run for my money on the social welfare benefits. You’re not a Blueshirt, are you, Bridget?”
“I am not,” she snapped. “Would you give me some credit? My family has always stood with Dev. My grandfather was in the GPO on Easter Sunday and two of my uncles fought in the War of Independence.”
“It must have been fierce busy in the GPO that day,” I said, looking up and speaking for the first time. “There’s barely a man, woman or child in Ireland who doesn’t claim that their father or grandfather was at one of the windows standing his post. It must have been near impossible to buy a stamp.”
“Who’s this fella then?” asked Bridget of Julian, looking at me as if I was something that had been dragged in by the cat on a cold winter’s night.
“My sister’s eldest lad,” said Julian. “Don’t mind him, sure he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. His hormones are all over the place at the moment. Now, about those pints of Guinness, darling, is there any risk of getting them before I pass out with the thirst?”
She looked around as if uncertain what she should do. “I don’t know what Mrs. Goggin would say.”
“And who’s Mrs. Goggin?” asked Julian.
“The manageress. My boss. She says I’m on trial for six weeks and we’ll see after that.”
“She sounds like a difficult article.”
“No, she’s very nice, actually,” said Bridget, shaking her head. “She gave me a chance here when no one else would.”
“Well, if she’s all that nice, then I don’t think she’d object to you taking an order from an elected TD from Dublin South, do you?”
“I thought you were Dublin Central?”
“You’re misremembering. I’m Dublin South.”
“You’re a bit of a laugh but I don’t believe a word you say.”
“Ah, Bridget,” said Julian, looking at her mournfully. “Don’t be like that. If you think I’m a laugh now, I promise you that I’m even more fun when I have a drink in me. Two pints of Guinness, that’s all we want. Come on now, we’ve a thirst on us like Lawrence of Arabia.”
She issued a deep sigh, as if she couldn’t be bothered debating anymore, before walking away and, to my astonishment, returning a few minutes later with two full dark pints of Guinness Stout, which she placed before us, the yellow foam at the top spilling lazily over the head, leaving a snail’s trail along the side of the glass.
“Enjoy them now,” she said. “Mr. TD for wherever you’re from now.”
“We will,” said Julian. He lifted his pint and took a long gulp and I watched his face grimace a little as he tried to swallow. His eyes closed briefly as he fought the urge to spit it back up. “Christ, that tastes good,” he said with all the credibility of a Parisian complimenting a meal in Central London. “I needed that.”
I took a sip from mine and, as it happens, didn’t mind the taste at all. It was warmer than I had expected and had a bitter flavor to it but, somehow, it didn’t make me gag. I gave it a sniff, then took another mouthful and breathed out through my nose. All good, I thought. I could get used to this.
“What do you think, Cyril?” he asked me. “Do I have a chance?”
“A chance at what?”
“A chance at Bridget.”
“She’s old,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s only about seventeen. Three years older than me. That’s a great age for a girl.”
I shook my head, feeling a rare irritation with him. “What do you know about girls anyway?” I asked. “You’re all talk.”
“I know that if you say the right things to one you can get her to do whatever you want.”
“Like what?”
“Well, most of them won’t let you go all the way but they’ll give you a blowie if you ask nicely.”
I said nothing for a moment and considered this. I didn’t want to display my ignorance before him but was eager to know. “What’s a blowie?” I asked.
“Ah come on, Cyril. You’re not that innocent.”
“I’m joking,” I said.
“No, you’re not. You don’t know.”
“I do,” I said.
“Well, go on then. What is it?”
“It’s when a girl kisses you,” I said. “And then she blows into your mouth.”
He stared at me in bewilderment before starting to laugh. “Why would any sane person do such a thing?” he asked me. “Unless you’d drowned, of course, and she was trying to bring you back to life. A blowie, Cyril, is where they put your thing in their mouth and give it an old suck.”
My eyes opened wide and I felt the familiar stirring in the crotch of my pants, attacking me faster than usual, my whole body alive with the idea of someone doing this to me. Or me doing it to someone else.
“That’s not true,” I said, blushing a little, for as exciting as it sounded I found it hard to imagine that anyone would actually do such a bizarre thing.
“Of course it is,” he said. “You’re so na?ve, Cyril. We’ll have to knock that out of you one day. You need a woman, that’s what you need.”