I turned away and my mind flitted to an image of Julian in our room every night, undressing for bed. The casual way he discarded his clothes, the complete lack of inhibition he showed as he stripped naked and slowly, casually, provocatively put on his pajamas while I pretended to read and tried not to make it obvious that I was watching from over the top of my book to capture another part of his body in my memory. A vision of him coming over to my bed to give me a blowie filled my mind and I struggled not to whimper in longing.
“Excuse me,” said a voice from halfway down the tearoom, and I turned to see a woman of about thirty marching toward us. Her hair was tied up on her head and she was wearing a different uniform to the one that the waitresses wore, a more professional outfit. I glanced at the metal badge pinned above her right breast that bore the words: Catherine Goggin, Manageress. “Are those pints of Guinness that you boys are drinking?”
“They are,” said Julian, barely looking up at her. His interest in girls did not extend this far up the age ladder. She might have been his great-grandmother for all the interest he had in her.
“And how old are you both?”
“Sorry,” said Julian, standing and picking up his jacket from behind the chair. “No time to chat. I have a meeting of the parliamentary party to attend. Are you right there, Cyril?”
I stood up too but the woman pressed a hand firmly down on both our shoulders, pushing us back into our seats.
“Who served you these drinks? Sure you’re only children.”
“I’ll have you know that I’m the TD for Wicklow,” said Julian, who seemed to be working his way slowly down the east coast of the country.
“And I’m Eleanor Roosevelt,” said the woman.
“So why does your name badge say Catherine Goggin?” asked Julian.
“You’re with the school party that came in this morning, aren’t you?” she asked, ignoring his question. “Where’s your teacher? You shouldn’t be wandering the corridors of Dáil éireann alone, let alone drinking alcohol.”
Before we could answer, I saw Bridget running over to our table, her face red and flustered, and behind her in hot pursuit was the irate face of Father Squires, followed by our four award-winning classmates.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Goggin,” said Bridget quickly. “He said he was a TD.”
“And how could you possibly believe that?” asked Mrs. Goggin. “Sure would you take a look at them, aren’t they only children? Do you have no more sense than a sweeping brush? I’m away on my holidays to Amsterdam next week, Bridget; do I have to spend all my time there worrying that you’re serving alcohol to minors?”
“Get up, the pair of you,” said Father Squires, pushing his way between the two women. “Get up and shame me no more. We’ll have a conversation about this when we’re back at Belvedere, so we will.”
We stood up again, both a little embarrassed by how things had turned out, and the manageress turned on the priest furiously. “Don’t be blaming them,” she said. “Sure aren’t they just causing trouble the way any kids will? You’re the one who’s supposed to be looking after them. Letting them loose in Leinster House,” she added, shaking her head in disgust, “where the business of the nation is conducted. I don’t think their parents would be too happy to know they were down here supping pints of Guinness when they should have been learning, do you? Well, Father, do you?”
Father Squires stared at her in utter astonishment, as did we all. It’s unlikely that anyone had ever spoken to him like this since the moment the collar first went around his neck, and for his accuser to be a woman was the worst insult of all. I could hear Julian chuckling beside me and knew that he was impressed by her audacity. I was impressed myself.
“You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, Missy,” said Father Squires, poking a finger into her left shoulder. “You’re addressing a man of the cloth, you know, not one of your boyfriends from Kehoe’s public house.”
“My boyfriends, if I had any, would surely have more sense than to let underage boys wander the corridors unsupervised,” she said, refusing to be intimidated by him. “And I won’t be poked and prodded by priests, do you hear me? Those days are long behind me. So take care not to touch me again. Now, this is my tearoom, Father, I’m in charge of it and you’re to take this pair out of here right now and leave the rest of us to get on with our work.”
Father Squires, looking as if he was about to have a series of heart attacks, a nervous breakdown and a stroke all at the same time, turned on his heel and marched away in full dudgeon. He could barely speak, the poor man, and I don’t think he did until we were safely back on the grounds of Belvedere College, when, of course, he let rip at me and Julian. As I stood to leave the tearoom, however, I glanced back at Catherine Goggin and couldn’t help but smile at her. I had never seen anyone put a priest in his place in the way that she had just done and thought the whole thing had been better than the pictures.
“Whatever punishment is coming my way,” I told her, “it was worth it just to see that.”
She stared at me for a moment before bursting out laughing.
“Go along now, you little demon,” she said, reaching forward and ruffling my hair.
“You’re in there,” whispered Julian in my ear as we left the tearoom. “And there’s nothing better than an oul’ one for teaching a young dog a few tricks.”
Max’s Right Ear