The Heart's Invisible Furies

“No,” I said. “Not that I can recall.”

“Oh you must go sometime. There’s a wonderful atmosphere to the place for one thing. The scent of incense mixed with the smell of dead bodies is only breath-taking.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“It is. And Father gives a wonderful sermon. He’s a real fire-and-brimstone type, which I think is just what Ireland needs right now. There’s all sorts out there these days. I see them in the bank all the time. Students coming in from Trinity College wearing next to nothing, their hands in the backs of their boyfriends’ denim jeans. You don’t own any denim jeans, do you, Cyril?”

“I have one pair,” I said. “But they’re a bit long on me. I don’t wear them very often.”

“Throw them away. No man should be seen in a pair of denim jeans. Of course, I see the whole world from my position on the foreign exchange desk at the Bank of Ireland, College Green. I had a divorced woman from England in last week, would you believe? I made my disapproval clear, I don’t mind telling you. And there was a young man in only yesterday going around more like a girl than a boy. Oh, the way he spoke! He was one of those, of course,” she added, bending her right hand at the wrist. “I refused to serve him. I told him he could go to the Allied Irish Bank if he wanted his money changed. They cater to that class of person there. He caused such a fuss. Do you want to know what he called me?”

“Not really,” I said.

“A b-i-t-c-h,” she said, leaning forward and spelling the word out quietly. She shook her head then and looked away. “I’m still not the better of it,” she added after a moment. “Anyway, I asked the security guard to throw him out. And do you know what he did then?”

“No,” I said. “Since I wasn’t there.”

“He started crying! He said his money was as good as anyone’s and he was sick of being treated like some second-class citizen. I told him that if I had my way he wouldn’t be a citizen at all. Of course, we all started laughing at him then, the customers too, and he sat down on one of the benches with a miserable look on his face as if we were in the wrong! They should lock all the Nancy-boys up, if you ask me. Put them out on one of the islands off the west coast where they can do no harm to anyone but each other. But anyway, Cyril, what we were talking about? Oh yes, where do you go to Mass?”

“Westland Row,” I told her, for want of a better answer. It was hard enough to keep up with her list of prejudices without trying to think of a Dublin church of which she might approve.

“Oh, that’s a beautiful building,” she said, surprising me by not dismissing it for being too tall, too wide or having too many letters in its name. “A lovely bit of stonework in there. It’s on my list every year on Holy Thursday when I do my Visita Iglesia. I wonder if I’ve ever seen you in there?”

“Anything is possible,” I said. “But most things are unlikely.”

“And tell me this and tell me no more,” she added, taking another sip from her tea and pulling a face. It seemed that even the tea was conspiring against her now. “What do you do with yourself?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m assuming that you have a good job somewhere?”

“Oh right, yes,” I said, telling her about my work at the Department of Education, and her eyes lit up immediately.

“Now, that’s a great career to have,” she said. “Almost as good as working in a bank. You simply can’t go wrong with the civil service. They can’t fire you for one thing, even if times are hard and you’re completely incompetent. Daddy always wanted me to join the civil service but I said, Daddy, I’m an independent young woman and I’ll find my own position, and find it I did on the foreign exchange desk at the Bank of Ireland, College Green. But I always think the great thing about the civil service is that you can go in there at twenty years old, spend every day of your life behind one desk and before you know it you’re an old man and it’s all behind you and the only thing left to do is die. There must be great security in that.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it that way,” I said, feeling a curious mélange of mortality and misery at the idea. “But I suppose you’re right.”

“Did I ever tell you that my Uncle Martin was a civil servant?”

“Well, no,” I said. “But then we’ve only just met again.”

“He was a wonderful civil servant. And a lovely man. Although he had a twitch in his cheek and I don’t like a man with a twitch. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Does he still work there?” I asked. “Maybe I might know him?”

“No,” she said, tapping her temple. “He got the dementia,” she told me, lowering her voice almost to a whisper. “He can’t remember who he is half the time. The last time I saw him he thought I was Dorothy Lamour!” She barked a laugh and looked around, shaking her head in delight before her face turned stony with disgust once again. “Would you take a look at her?” she said.

I turned to glance in the direction in which she was staring and saw a young girl making her way down the center aisle of Bewley’s, a young stunner who was defying the weather by wearing as few clothes as possible. The eyes of every man in the place were on her behind as she passed. Almost every man anyway.

“Mutton dressed as lamb,” said Mary-Margaret, curling her lip. “That wouldn’t be my standard now at all.”

“Would you like a cream cake to go with your tea?” I asked.

“No, thank you, Cyril. Cream doesn’t agree with me.”

“Right.” I checked my watch and saw that we had already been in the café for seven minutes, which I thought was long enough. “Well, I suppose I better be getting back,” I said.

“Getting back where?”

“Back to work,” I said.

“Oh listen to you,” she said. “Mr. Hoity-Toity.”

I had no idea what she meant by this. It didn’t seem like such a bizarre idea that I should return to work, since it was only three o’clock in the afternoon.

“It was nice to see you again, Mary-Margaret,” I said, extending my hand

“Hold on there now, you, till I give you my phone number,” she said, reaching into her bag for a pen and paper.

“Why?” I asked.

“But sure how else would you be able to call me if you didn’t know what my number was?”

I frowned, uncertain what she was getting at. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you want me to call you? Was there something you needed to ask me? Because I can stay a little longer if there is.”

“No, we’ll save something to talk about for next time.” She scribbled down a number and handed it across to me. “It’ll be better if you call me than the other way around. I wouldn’t be the type to phone a boy. But I won’t be waiting by the telephone for you either, so don’t get any notions on that score. And if Daddy answers, tell him that you’re a civil servant from the Department of Education, because he’ll approve of that. Otherwise he’ll give you short shrift.”

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