“What’s it about?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t really know,” he said. “As I haven’t started it yet. But the back cover says it’s about the war and children fleeing the Nazis. Do you know about the Nazis? I know all about them. They were the worst. Just awful, awful people without a shred of humanity between them. But here’s the thing, Mr. Avery—”
“Call me Cyril,” I said.
“No, I couldn’t do that. You’re really old and I’m just a child.”
“I’m twenty-eight!” I said, appalled and insulted.
“Wow,” he said, laughing. “That is so ancient. You’re like a dinosaur. Anyway, here’s the thing, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, I prefer stories about things that really happened. And the war really happened, didn’t it, so I want to know about it. Did you fight in the war, Mr. Avery?”
“No,” I said. “On account of the fact that I was born a few months after it ended.”
“I find that very hard to believe,” said Jonathan, shaking his head. “You look so old that if you said you’d fought in the First World War, I wouldn’t have fallen off my seat in surprise!”
And with that he burst out laughing and continued to laugh for so long and so hard that I had no choice but to laugh along.
“Shut up, you little prick,” I said eventually, even though I was still laughing, and he switched to giggling now. “I have a hangover, that’s all.”
“You said a bad word,” he told me.
“I did,” I admitted. “I learned it in the trenches at Verdun.”
“Verdun was a battle in the First World War,” he announced. “It lasted eleven months and General von Hindenburg, who later became President of Germany, was in charge. I knew you were old. And what’s a hangover?”
“It’s when you pour so much drink down your throat that you wake up the next day feeling like the wreck of the Hesperus.”
I glanced around in search of his mother but there was no sign of her as yet.
“So are you looking forward to getting married?” asked Jonathan. “Don’t people usually do that when they’re much younger? Could you not find someone to marry you until now?”
“I’m a late developer,” I said.
“What’s that mean?”
“Give it a few years. Something tells me you’ll understand in time.”
“And you’re marrying a woman?”
“No, I’m marrying a train. The eleven-o-four from Castlebar.”
He frowned. “How can you marry a train?” he asked.
“There’s nothing in the constitution that says I can’t.”
“I suppose not. And if you love the train and the train loves you, then I suppose you should marry it.”
“I’m not marrying a train, Jonathan,” I said with a sigh, taking a long drink from my iced water. “I’m marrying a woman.”
“I knew it. You’re silly.”
“I am silly,” I admitted. “I’m about the silliest man you’ve ever met. I’m a complete fucking idiot, actually.”
“You said another bad word. I bet you’re going to have sex with your wife tonight, aren’t you?”
“How do you know about sex?” I asked. “You’re only about six.”
“I’m eight. And I’ll be nine in three weeks’ time. And I know all about sex, actually,” he added, not seeming the least embarrassed. “My mother told me all about it.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “When a mummy and a daddy love each other very much, they lie close together and the Holy Spirit descends upon them to create the miracle of new life.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Jonathan. “That’s not what happens at all.” At which point he proceeded to give me a very frank description of how a man and woman went about the business of fornicating, even telling me a few things that I had not known before.
“How on earth do you know all these things?” I asked him when he’d finished his rather graphic and stomach-churning lecture.
“My mother says that one of the problems in this country is that no one is willing to talk about sex because of the influence of the Catholic Church and she says that she wants me to grow up understanding that a woman’s body is something to be cherished, not something to be afraid of.”
“I wish she’d been my mother,” I muttered.
“When I’m grown up, I intend to be a very considerate lover,” said Jonathan, nodding his head fiercely.
“Good for you. And what does your father say about all this?”
“Oh I don’t have a father,” he said.
“Of course you have a father. You don’t know anything about sex if you don’t understand that everyone has a mother and a father.”
“I mean I don’t know my father,” said Jonathan. “I’m illegitimate.”
“I hate that word.”
“I do too. But I wear it as a badge of honor. I find that if I say it to people, then they don’t say it behind my back. They can’t gossip in corners, saying, Do you know that Jonathan Edward Goggin is illegitimate? because I’ll already have told them. One–nil to me. In fact, every time I meet someone new I make sure to tell them quite soon.”
“Doesn’t your mother mind?”
“She’d prefer that I didn’t. But she says that I have to do whatever feels right and that she’s not going to make my decisions for me. She says she’s my mother, not my grandfather.”
“What on earth does that mean?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” said Jonathan. “But she says that she’ll explain it to me some day.”
“You’re a bit of an oddball, Jonathan,” I said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Nineteen people this year alone,” he said. “And it’s only May.”
I laughed and checked my watch. Five more minutes and I would have to go.
“What’s the name of the girl you’re marrying?” asked Jonathan.
“Alice,” I said.
“There’s a girl named Alice in my class,” he replied, opening his eyes wide, apparently excited that we should have this in common. “She’s really really really pretty. She has long blonde hair and eyes the color of opals.”
“Is she your girlfriend?” I asked.
“No!” he screamed, making the other people in the café turn around and stare in our direction. He went bright red then. “No, she’s not my girlfriend at all!”
“Sorry,” I said, laughing. “I forgot, you’re only eight.”
“A girl called Melanie is my girlfriend,” he said.
“Oh right. Fair enough.”
“And I’m going to marry her one day.”
“Really? Good for you.”
“Thank you. Isn’t it funny that you’re getting married this morning and I’m telling you about the girl I’m going to marry when I’m all grown up?”
“It’s hilarious,” I said. “All you need is love; it’s all any of us need.”
“The Beatles,” said Jonathan quickly. “?‘All You Need Is Love,’ a Lennon-McCartney composition, although it’s actually written by John Lennon. Magical Mystery Tour, 1967. B-side, Song 5.”
“You’re a Beatles fan then?” I asked.
“Of course. Aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Who’s your favorite Beatle?”
“George,” I said.
“Interesting.”
“Who’s yours?”
“Pete Best.”
“Interesting.”
“I always root for the underdog,” said Jonathan.