“This isn’t my standard of conversation at all,” said Mary-Margaret, turning to Bridget. The Snowballs arrived at the same moment and she took a sniff of hers before swallowing almost all of it in one go without showing any particular reaction. “Are these going to be vulgar boys? Because I don’t care for vulgar boys, as you know. I’ll have another one of these if they’re going.”
“Two more Snowballs!” roared Julian.
In the silence that followed, Mary-Margaret turned to look at me again and if anything she seemed even less impressed by me now than she had before, which was something that I hadn’t thought possible.
“Cecil, is it?” she asked.
“Cyril,” I said.
“Cyril what?”
“Cyril Avery.”
“Well,” she said with a little sniff. “It’s not the worst name I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you.”
“I only came because Bridget asked me to. I didn’t know that we were making up a foursome.”
“Neither did I,” I said.
“That’s not my standard at all,” she said.
“How was the tearoom today?” asked Julian. “Did President Eisenhower stop by to say hello?”
“Mr. Eisenhower is the American President,” said Mary-Margaret, turning to him contemptuously. “Our President is Mr. O’Kelly. You can’t be that ignorant, surely?”
“I was making a joke, Mary-Margaret,” said Julian, rolling his eyes. “Have you ever heard of one of those?”
“I don’t care for jokes,” she replied.
“I’ve never even heard of President Eisaflower,” said Bridget with a shrug.
“Eisenhower,” I said.
“Eisaflower,” she repeated.
“That’s it,” I said.
“Do you work in the tearoom too, Mary-Margaret?” asked Julian.
“I do not,” she said, insulted by the very suggestion, despite the fact that her friend was sitting next to her. “I’m a junior cash assistant on the foreign exchange desk at the Bank of Ireland, College Green.”
“You are not,” said Julian.
“I am,” she said.
“You are not. You’re making it up.”
“Why would I do such a thing?” she asked.
“Right then, say something in Norwegian.”
Mary-Margaret stared at him as if she didn’t quite understand what he was getting at before turning to Bridget, who leaned forward and slapped Julian’s forearm playfully, leaving her hand there afterward, which made me want to pick up a stray knife from the next table and cut it off.
“Don’t mind him,” said Bridget, full of fun. “He thinks he’s the bee’s knees.”
“And the cat’s pajamas,” said Julian with a wink.
“You’re the cat’s something.”
“That doesn’t even mean anything,” I said quietly.
“The Norwegians use Norwegian kroner,” announced Mary-Margaret, pulling a face and looking away. “I don’t care for it very much, if I’m honest. When you count it out, it leaves an ink stain on your hands and that’s not my standard at all. I prefer international currency that leaves no residue. Australian banknotes are very clean. As are those of their nearest neighbors, the New Zealanders.”
“Christ alive, you’re a fascinating creature,” said Julian, and by now we’d finished another round and more had just arrived, on my orders after Julian had looked at the near-empty glasses and given me a nudge.
“Actually, that’s a common misconception,” I said. “New Zealand isn’t Australia’s nearest neighbor at all.”
“Of course it is,” said Mary-Margaret. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous. Papua New Guinea is closer. We studied it in geography class.”
“There’s no such place,” she said.
“Well,” I said, uncertain how I could go about proving it, “there is.”
“Stop flirting with the poor girl, Cyril,” said Julian. “She’ll be on you like a bear on a beehive if you keep this dirty talk up.”
“I work on the foreign exchange desk at the Bank of Ireland, College Green,” she repeated, in case we had forgotten her telling us this a few minutes before. “I think I know a little more about world geography than you.”
“Not if you’ve never heard of Papua New Guinea,” I muttered, burying myself in my pint.
“I bought a new pair of nylons,” said Bridget, apropos of nothing. “I’m debuting them tonight. What do you think?” And she swung around to the left of the stool so her legs could stretch out before us. I had little to compare them against but I could tell that they were impressive enough, if you liked that sort of thing. From the top of her head to the soles of her feet, Bridget was a stunner and there was no point denying it. All I had to do was look at Julian to see how infatuated he was. I recognized the expression on his face only too well, for I wore it myself most of the time.
“They’re absolutely gorgeous,” said Julian, winking at her. “But I bet I could talk you out of them.”
“Cheek,” she said, slapping his arm again and laughing before turning her attention back to me. “Howaya anyway, Cyril?” she asked. “Do you have any news for me?”
“Not too much,” I said. “I got a Highly Regarded for my essay on Pope Benedict XV and his efforts to pursue a peace settlement during the First World War.”
“And you’re only telling me now?” said Bridget.
“You never asked,” I said.
“Jesus, there’s a pair of them in it,” said Julian, looking back and forth between Mary-Margaret and myself.
“Is it just me or does this place smell?” asked Mary-Margaret, pulling a face.
“It might be just you,” said Julian. “Have you had a bath this week?”
“I meant, is it just me who thinks that there’s a smell?” she asked, snarling at him.
“It does smell a bit like piss,” said Bridget.
“Bridget!” said Mary-Margaret, scandalized.
“That’s because we’re sitting at the top of the stairs,” said Julian. “And the men’s jacks are down there. All you need to do, Mary-Magdalen, is turn your head around that corner and you’ll be able to see all the oul’ lads with their things out.”
“It’s Mary-Margaret,” said Mary-Margaret. “Not Mary-Magdalen.”
“My mistake.”
“And I’d rather you didn’t talk about things, if you please.”
“Nothing wrong with things,” said Julian. “None of us would be here without them. I’d be lost without my thing. It’s my best friend, after Cyril here. Although I’ll leave you to figure out which one I have more fun with.”
I smiled, the drink beginning to affect me a little, considering it quite a compliment to be higher ranked in his estimation than his penis.
“Bridget,” said Mary-Margaret, turning to her friend. “I don’t care for this type of dirty talk. It isn’t my standard.”
“Boys are obsessed with their things,” said Bridget, shaking her head. “It’s all they ever talk about.”
“Not true,” said Julian. “Only last week I had a conversation with a lad from my mathematics class about quadratic equations. Although now that I think of it, we were taking a piss side by side at the time and I have to admit I took a quick look at his to see how I measured up.”
“Who was it?” I asked, feeling a stirring in my crotch at the thought of it.
“Peter Trefontaine.”
“And how was it?”
“Small,” said Julian. “And it curved to the left a little in a weird way.”
“Would you please stop?” asked Mary-Margaret. “I have to be up for Mass in the morning.”
“With Father Dwyer, yes, you mentioned. I bet he’s got a tiny thing.”
“Bridget, I will leave if this boy continues to—”