Having enjoyed our brief escape from the clutches of Belvedere College during Julian’s short-lived career as a TD, we decided to try our luck on the outside more often. Soon we were visiting city-center cinemas for afternoon matinées or strolling through the grounds of Trinity College to gawp at the Protestants, who seemed to have been dehorned by some benevolent shearer upon admission. We were drawn to the record and clothes shops along Henry Street, despite the fact that we could afford very little, and when Julian stole a copy of Frank Sinatra’s Songs for Swingin’ Lovers! from a market stall, we ran all the way back to school, delirious with the exhilaration of youth.
A few weeks after our visit to the Dáil, we were walking along O’Connell Street one afternoon, having fled Parnell Square after a particularly tedious geography class, and I felt a spontaneous burst of joy that I had never quite known before. The sun was out, Julian was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that accentuated his biceps, and my pubic hair had finally kicked in. Our friendship had never been closer and hours stretched before us where we could talk and exchange confidences, excluding anyone and anything from our tiny universe that didn’t interest us. For once, the world seemed to be a place filled with possibilities.
“What shall we do today?” I asked, pausing by Nelson’s Pillar and using the shade from the pedestal to keep the sun from my eyes.
“Well, actually—hold on,” said Julian, stopping abruptly by a staircase that led beneath the street to a public urinal. “Two minutes. Call of nature.”
I waited where I was, kicking my heels against the base of the statue and looking around. To my right, I could see the General Post Office, where Max Woodbead’s nemeses, the leaders of the 1916 Rising, had exhorted Irishmen and Irishwomen, in the name of God and of the dead generations, to answer a summons to the flag and strike for their freedom.
“You’re a good-looking lad,” growled a voice from behind me and I turned to see Julian grinning madly and starting to laugh when he saw the expression on my face. “I was down in the jacks,” he said, nodding back toward the Pillar, “and this man comes up to me while I’m taking a piss and says that to me.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I forgot that’s where all the queers hang out,” he said, shuddering. “In underground lavatories waiting for innocent young boys like me to come along.”
“You’re hardly an innocent young boy,” I said, glancing back toward the staircase, wondering who or what might ascend from there to drag Julian or me down into that dark underworld.
“No, but that’s what they look for. Guess what I did?”
“What?” I asked.
“I turned around and pissed all over his trousers. He got a good look at my thing but it was worth it. It’ll be hours before his pants are dry enough for him to come back up. You should have heard the names he called me! Imagine, Cyril! A dirty queer calling me names!”
“You should have hit him,” I said.
“No need for that,” he replied, frowning. “Violence never solved anything.”
I said nothing. Whenever I tried to agree with him on subjects of this nature, he always seemed to backtrack on me, leaving me baffled as to how I had got things so wrong.
“So,” I said, and we walked on, keen to put as much distance between us and the public toilet as possible while trying not to think about how awful it must be to have to go to such places to find anything approaching affection. “What shall we do today?”
“Let’s have a think,” he said cheerfully. “Any suggestions?”
“We could go take a look at the ducks in St. Stephen’s Green,” I suggested. “If we picked up a loaf of bread, we could feed it to them.”
Julian laughed and shook his head. “We won’t be doing that,” he said.
“Well, what if we walked down toward the Ha’penny Bridge? They say that if you jump up and down on it, it starts to rock. We could frighten the life out of the old women as they’re crossing it.”
“No,” said Julian. “Not that either.”
“Well, what then?” I said. “You suggest something.”
“Did you ever hear of the Palace Bar?” he asked, and I knew at once that he’d already planned our afternoon for us and I would have no choice but to fall in line.
“No,” I said.
“It’s just off Westmoreland Street. All the students from Trinity College go there. And the oul’ fellas because they serve the best porter. Let’s go there.”
“A pub?” I said dubiously.
“Yes, Cyril, a pub,” he replied, brushing his hair back from his forehead and grinning. “We want an adventure, don’t we? And you never know who we might run into. How much money have you got on you?”
I fished around in my pockets and pulled out my change. Although I almost never saw him, Charles was fairly generous in my allowance, fifty pence arriving in my school bank account every Monday morning without fail. A real Avery, of course, would probably have got a pound.
“Not bad,” said Julian, totting it up in his head. “I’ve got about the same. We’ve the makings of a good afternoon there if we use it sensibly.”
“They won’t serve us,” I said.
“Of course they will. We look old enough. Well, I do anyway. And we have money, which is all that these places really care about. We’ll be fine.”
“Can we go see the ducks first?” I asked.
“No, Cyril,” he said, torn between frustration and amusement. “Fuck the ducks. We’re going to the pub.”
I said nothing—it was rare that the F word was employed by any of us and when it was, it signaled absolute authority. There was simply no going against the F word.
Just before we entered the pub, Julian stopped outside a pharmacy and dug around in his pockets, pulling out a piece of paper. “Give me two minutes,” he said. “I have to pick something up.”
“What?” I asked.
“A prescription.”
“A prescription for what? Are you sick?”
“No, I’m grand. I had to see a doctor the other day, that’s all. It’s nothing serious.”
I frowned and watched him as he walked inside and, a moment later, followed him in.
“I told you to wait outside,” he said when he saw me.
“No, you didn’t. What’s wrong with you anyway?”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just a rash.”
“What sort of a rash? Where is it?”
“Never you mind where it is.”
The pharmacist appeared from the dispensary behind him and handed something across. “Use it lavishly on the affected area twice a day,” he said, taking Julian’s money.
“Will it sting?”
“Not as much as it will if you don’t use it.”
“Thank you,” said Julian, putting the packet in his pocket, handing across the money and marching off, leaving me to follow in his wake.
“Julian,” I said when we were back on the street. “What was all that—”