“What?” asked Mary-Margaret, confused now.
“I said I’m the Lord. I’ve been sent down by my father, who’s also the Lord, to set people on the right path. What we want, the daddy and me, is for everyone to take their clothes off and just leap on each other like wild dogs in heat. Adam and Eve were naked, as you’ll know if you’ve read the Book of The Beginnings of It All, chapter one, verse one: And lo there was man and lo there was woman and neither of them had a stitch on and lo and lo the woman did lie down and lo, the man did do all kinds of mad stuff with the woman, who had big tits and was gagging for it.”
“That’s not in the Bible,” insisted Mary-Margaret, leaning over the table, her hands clenching into fists as she prepared to rip Julian’s throat from his neck.
“Well, maybe not the bit about the big tits but the rest of it is spot on, I think.”
“Squirrel,” she said, appealing to me. “Are you really friends with this person? Is he leading you astray?”
“It’s Cyril,” I barked.
“Sorry, what are we talking about?” asked Bridget, on whom the Snowballs were beginning to have an effect. “I was off in a world of my own. I was thinking about Cary Grant. Is it just me or is Cary Grant the most handsome man alive?”
“Present company excepted,” said Julian. “Only a blind man could deny Cyril the Squirrel’s charms. But while we’re on the subject of ridiculously handsome man, has anyone seen who’s over there at the bar?”
We all turned our heads to look and my eyes ran along the six or seven statues seated on their stools, staring at their reflections in the mirror behind the bar.
“Who?” asked Bridget, reaching forward and grabbing Julian’s hand. “Who is it? I heard Bing Crosby is over for a golf championship. Is it him?”
“Look over there toward the end,” said Julian, nodding in the direction of a portly man with a jowly face and dark hair who was seated on the last stool before the stained-glass division. “You don’t recognize him, no?”
“He looks like Father Dwyer,” said Mary-Margaret. “But a man like that wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.”
“He reminds me a bit of my Uncle Diarmuid,” said Bridget. “But he died two years ago, so it can’t be him either.”
“It’s Brendan Behan,” said Julian, sounding amazed that we didn’t recognize him.
“Who?” asked Bridget.
“Brendan Behan,” he repeated.
“The writer?” I asked, the first time I had spoken in a long time, and Julian turned to me with an expression that suggested he’d forgotten I was even there.
“Of course the writer,” he said. “Who else could I mean, Brendan Behan the milkman?”
“Is he the man who wrote that Borstal Boy thing?” asked Mary-Margaret.
“And The Quare Fellow,” said Julian. “A great Dubliner.”
“Is he not a terrible drunk?” she asked.
“Says the girl on her fourth Snowball.”
“Father Dwyer said that was an awful play. And the book he wrote about the prison, Daddy wouldn’t have it in the house.”
“Mr. Behan! Mr. Behan!” cried Julian, turning around and waving his arms in the air, and, sure enough, the man turned around and looked at us, a disdainful expression dissolving into a cheerful one, perhaps on account of our youth.
“Anseo,” he said. “Do I know you?”
“No, but we know you,” said Julian. “My pal and I here are Belvedere boys and we value the written word even if the Jesuits don’t. Would you join us at all? I’d consider it an honor to buy you a pint. Cyril, buy Mr. Behan a pint.”
“Sold,” said Behan, shuffling off his seat and walking over, taking a smaller stool from a nearby table to join our group and settling in between Mary-Margaret and myself, leaving Julian and Bridget next to each other. The moment he sat down he turned to Mary-Margaret and looked into her eyes before slowly glancing down to focus on her breasts.
“A fine pair,” he said, looking around the table as a fresh round arrived and Julian took the money from my hand before handing it to the barman. “Small but not excessively so. Just right for the palm of a man’s hand. I’ve always believed there’s a direct correlation between the size of a man’s hand, the circumference of his wife’s tits and the happiness of their marriage.”
“Saints alive!” said Mary-Margaret, looking as if she was about to faint.
“I read your book, Mr. Behan,” said Julian before she could hit him.
“Please,” said Behan, raising a hand while he smiled beatifically at us all. “No formalities, please. Call me Mr. Behan.”
“Mr. Behan it is so,” said Julian, laughing a little.
“And why did you read it? Did you have nothing better to do with your time? How old are you anyway?”
“Fifteen,” said Julian.
“Fifteen?” asked Bridget, feigning shock. “You told me you were nineteen.”
“I am nineteen,” said Julian cheerfully.
“When I was fifteen,” said Behan, “I was too busy pulling my mickey to be worrying about reading books. Fair play to you now, young fella.”
“This is not my standard,” said Mary-Margaret, making good headway through her fifth Snowball and being so appalled by the turn the conversation had taken that she had little choice but to order another.
“My father tried to get it banned,” continued Julian. “He hates anything to do with Republicanism, so I had to see what all the fuss was about.”
“Who’s your father?”
“Max Woodbead.”
“The solicitor?”
“That’s the one.”
“Who got his ear shot off by the IRA?”
“Yes,” nodded Julian.
“Jayzuz,” said Behan, shaking his head and laughing as he lifted the pint that Mary-Margaret had ordered and drank a good quarter of it without batting an eyelid. “You must have a few quid so. We’ll keep you on call here all night.”
“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Behan?” asked Bridget, leaning forward with a look on her face that suggested she was either going to ask where he got his ideas or whether he wrote by hand or on a typewriter.
“If it’s will you marry me, the answer’s no, but if it’s will I take you out the alley for a quick ride, then it’s yes,” said Behan, and there was a long silence before he started laughing and took another mouthful of his Guinness. “I’m only pulling your leg, darling. Let’s have a look at your legs anyway. Swing ’em out there. Come on, all the way; let the dog see the rabbit. Jayzuz, they’re not bad all the same. You’ve two of them, which always helps. And they go up a fair way.”
“They meet in the middle too,” said Bridget, a line that made me, Julian and Mary-Margaret sit back in a mixture of admiration and disbelief. Julian looked as if he was about to rise off the seat in lust at the very idea.
“Is this your fella, it is?” Behan asked, nodding at Julian.
“I don’t know yet,” said Bridget, shooting Julian a sidelong glance. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”