Jammy Dodger (18 page)

‘No, I'm coming now,' Quigley mouthed. Then to us: ‘I'd better get back. They probably want me to pay for the drinks. They're like children really. Will we see you on opening night?'

‘Absolutely.'

He rejoined his parched artistes.

‘Do you think that play could be as bad as it sounds?' asked Rosie.

I considered for a moment.

‘Yes.'

 

After an hour of two-fisted drinking the volume of declamatory babble from Quigley's crew became unbearable and Rosie and I were forced to de-camp to a nearby bistro, where we washed down platters of garlic-soaked molluscs with cheap Chablis. From there we progressed to the green-leather comfort of The Merchants' Lounge, where we found Boyd Monroe and Marianne Trench sharing an upmarket Graves. Monroe (looking initially shifty, I thought) hailed us from their nook. ‘
What wind blows you thus
 …?'

‘Why, the wind that bloweth all the world besides: desire of alcohol.' I responded.

‘We are of like minds, then. Won't you join us?'

While Monroe went to the bar for extra glasses and another bottle, I introduced Rosie to Trench, who was a little the worse for wear.

The two women exchanged pleasantries.

‘How's the poetry going?' Trench slurred at me.

‘Cliterogenically,' I said.

She blinked at me. The wine had taken some of the haunted quality out of her visage, and there was even a slight lustre to her print-weary eyes. I was slightly confused. I wondered why one of the city's most upright and industrious intellects was hobnobbing with a louche and indolent creature like Monroe.

‘Identify the quote,' she said, holding up an unsteady forefinger. ‘
Like a piece of ice on a hot stove, a poem must ride on its own melting
.'

‘Robert Frost!' cried Monroe, returning amid chimes of glass.

‘Oh Boyd! I was asking the young people. I know
you
know.'

‘It's a lovely definition, though, isn't it?' Monroe said, pouring the drinks. ‘Kind of like a duck being cooked in its own fat. Or a squid in its own ink.'

‘That's right, spoil a wonderful simile with carnivore pornography,' Trench scolded.

‘Sorry Marianne.' He made a face at us. ‘Vegetarian,' he mouthed.

He pushed the drinks across the tabletop

‘Mmm. You know, just saying that has made me hungry. Anyone else hungry?'

‘We just ate,' Rosie said.

‘Anything nice?'

‘Sea creatures fried in butter.'

Trench groaned.

‘Yum.' Monroe proffered his hand. ‘We haven't met. Boyd. Artie's old tutor.'

‘Rosie. Potential girlfriend.'

They shook.

‘How
was
Artie back then?' Rosie asked.

‘Oh, unfair question. Artie, what were you like?'

I shrugged.

‘Let's see …' Monroe stroked his chin. ‘What can I say? He was … interesting. Full of promise. Definitely one of the the brightest to come my way.'

I protested, but Rosie was already looking at me with an expression of humorous surprise.

‘A model student? Who would have thought it?'

‘Oh no, I didn't say that,' Monroe laughed. ‘He was quite the contrary. A prime example, in fact, of why the university system doesn't work.'

‘In what way?'

‘Basically, he never showed up,' he said, grinning at me.

‘You didn't have a water-tight attendance record yourself,' I reminded him. ‘Anyway, I would've turned up more often if your lectures hadn't been so damned boring.'

‘Me too!' cried Monroe. ‘Now, what shall we drink to?'

Trench raised her glass. ‘Let's drink to potential.'

‘To potential! Going for gold!' Monroe trilled.

We clinked and drank.

‘
Nothing gold can stay
,' Trench murmured.

 

As the night wore on, Rosie became mellower and sweeter, like peaches marinating in brandy. We were sitting close together on the slippery leather banquette and her body, when I leaned into it, was soft and warm, her outer thigh answering pressure from mine. The high-quality wine (which Monroe paid for) seemed to lift everyone's game and there was much eager badinage. Even the analytic Trench shook off her customary
douleur
to reveal a deceptively nimble wit, disorienting her younger, court-holding colleague several times with a flurry of jabs from left field.

Later, we found ourselves in a taxi heading for the docks and more sympathetic licensing hours. In Carolan's (it might have been Muldoon's) the ambience had been supercharged by a psychobilly band whipping new life into old tunes. As we arrived they were just finishing a joyous version of
Ruby (Don't Take Your Love to Town)
.

‘Excellent. Live popular culture!' Monroe declared with glee.

We nuzzled into the crowd until we found a resting place and, magically, refreshments appeared. Everything was hilarious. More drinks materialised. After the official musicians stepped down an impromptu talent contest began and a sparkling Monroe, pint in hand, took to the makeshift stage, managing half of a surprisingly mellifluous
On Raglan Road
before losing his balance and crashing sideways into a table of Dutch tourists.

‘More stout?' he enquired, appearing unfazed in front of us.

‘Boyd, you've had enough,' Trench admonished.

‘My dear Marianne,' he said, rubbing her arm and smiling. ‘
You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough
.'

‘And, my dear Boyd,' she replied. ‘
If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise
.'

By now Rosie was regarding me with candid desire.

‘I think we should go,' she whispered in my ear.

‘Aren't you enjoying yourself?'

‘Yes. But I want to enjoy myself more.'

We said our goodbyes (Monroe made a token bleat for us to stay) and slithered into the back of a taxi.

‘We'll go to my place,' Rosie said. ‘I have to get up in the morning.'

By the time we'd finished our first kiss we were there, standing in the street. Fumble of keys. Swarm of darkness. Threshold. We embraced while still moving and tumbled onto the sofa, Rosie on top, my leg between her legs. Her hot mouth was sweet and garlicky. I grasped her shoulders and pushed her up so I could unbutton her shirt.

‘Wait, not here,' she hissed. ‘The bedroom.'

She led the way, clothes fluttering to the floor in her wake, into the inner sanctum of gossamers and girl-smell, where we plunged into goose-down three feet deep. Rosie, naked except for her briefs, was breathing noisily and her lips trembled as they met mine. Her body was full and smooth and lithe, and fluttered where I touched it. The inflow of sensory data was dizzying.
i like my body when it is with your body
. My fingers sought the elastic of her underwear …

And then it started.

Thwack! ‘Ohhhh …'

Rosie froze.

Thwack! ‘Ohhhh …'

‘What the
fuck
is that?'

Thwack! ‘Owww …'

She sat up.

Thwack! ‘Ohhhh …'

We both looked at the ceiling.

Thwack! ‘Ohhhh …'

‘What on earth …?' said Rosie.

But I already knew what it was.

‘Pleeease officer … offence … anything …' (Female voice, muffled but plaintive.)

Thwack!

‘Madam … like to … however … rules …' (Familiar male voice, regretful but gruff.)

Hysterical giggling.

Thwack! ‘Owww …'

Rosie turned to me. Even in the half light I could see the horror in her eyes.

‘Artie! Do something!'

‘Like what?' I clasped my hands behind my head.

Bloody Oliver.

The snippets that were clearly audible (‘will be taken down', ‘cavity search', ‘truncheon') suggested the dialogue was unfolding predictably enough, the splat of a hard, flat implement connecting with human flesh increasing in frequency as the emotional pitch of the voices tightened. Then, sounds of a scuffle; something heavy hitting the floor. The talk dropped to unintelligibility. More cackling. A low, electrical buzzing started up and a few seconds later, a rhythmic squeaking. The buzzing accelerated, producing (or not) a squeal of what might have been surprise. Then a new sound. Like a panicked bull seal in a tankful of jellyfish.

‘I can't take any more of this,' said Rosie, in some distress.

‘It'll stop in a minute,' I soothed. (I was trying to stay positive but the mental imagery was taking its toll.)

From above there was suddenly the impression of many feet moving chaotically in a confined space (had they introduced livestock?), bronchial panting, then an abrupt surge in both the volume and speed of the buzzing, the squeaking
and
the seal panic.

Rosie clambered out of bed.

‘It's too awful,' she announced. ‘I'm going to sleep on the sofa.'

Overhead, someone began castrating a warthog.

 

*

 

My co-editor appeared well pleased with himself when he rolled in late the next morning whistling the theme from
The Dambusters
.

‘Ah! Here's himself and pepper on him,' I said, with all the false bonhomie I could muster.

He gave a cheery wave without pausing and diverted straight to ‘the kitchen'.

‘Kettle's hot,' I called after him.

I watched from behind the typewriter as he placed his mug on the desk and settled himself, ripping open a packet of Sprinkle Crinkle Crunches.

‘Good night?' I enquired.

He grunted. He was focused on dunking.

‘Nothing too
punishing
?'

He looked up.

‘No, took it pretty easy. Quiet night in with Iris.'

‘Sounds very
disciplined
.'

His hand twitched, and a chunk of stodge sank into the milky depths.

‘Bugger … What about you?'

‘Oh, I had a
spanking
good time, thanks.'

‘Were you with Rosie?'

‘Yes. Well, she does tend to
dominate
things these days.'

‘Indeed,' he said uncertainly.

‘I hope that doesn't
smack
of weakness on my part.'

‘No, not at all, it's a great thing to have a lady in your life.'

I gave up.

‘Listen,' I told him. ‘We need to get cracking with our plan. When you've finished your …
breakfast
, why don't you try and come up with a name for our poet. I was thinking this – ' I tossed a map-book of Northern Ireland across the table. ‘… might help narrow it down a bit, provide a few ideas.'

He began flicking through it.

‘Not sure I'm with you,' he said.

‘Just close your eyes, stick a pin in and see what you come up with.'

He pored over it.

‘Isn't that how The Wombles got their names?' he asked.

‘I don't know. Is it?'

‘Yeah, remember? Uncle Bulgaria? Orinoco? Tomsk?'

‘Well, there you go, it worked for them. Now, I have to get on with what we need in the way of material.'

On my sheet I had typed a number of categories:

 

* Urban Angst
* Identity
* Death
* Violence
* Violent Death
* Rural Practices
* Ancient Rites
* West of Ireland Pastoral
* Love Lyric
* Ancestral Voices
* Mushrooms

 

To these I now added, ‘Love Across the Barricades'.

I unspooled the page and fed in another. Right, a poem. How hard could it be? Let's see … Blank verse or heroic couplets? Terzains, quatrains, sixains, or ottava rima? What about a hudabrastic? Rime royal? Spenserians? Sapphics? Ouch. Slight headache. Let's stick with vanilla: blank verse, iambic pentameter. And a title. Off the top of my head I typed,
A Belfast Breakfast
.

I took a couple of breaths. Tried to focus. Here we go.

The city wakes to the smell of
–

What? Napalm? Fear?
Doughnuts
?

I thought for a moment. Two syllables – just write.

The city wakes to the smell of autumn –

That'll do. That's set the tone.

Turfsmoke and leaf-rot, a moon-haunted sky

Not bad. I took a swig of cold tea.

Coming to light above slumbering hills.

Slumbering hills? Mmm, not great. Fix it later. Now, need a domestic scene.

My father, first up, mixes milk and oats

Together, sets the pot on the heat –

Hang on, let's cook with gas. More atmospheric.

…
sets the pot over blue flame,

Good, that's brekkie under way. What would he do next? I stared at the ceiling.

Listens for life-signs in the sleeping house.

So far, so good. But where's it going?

‘Artie?'

‘Not now Oliver.'

‘Artie, what do you think of Kells Magilligan?'

‘Who?'

‘As a name for our poet.'

‘No.'

‘Kesh Clogherbog?'

‘No.'

‘Teemore Gillygooley?'

‘Oliver, no.'

‘What about Clabby Madden?'

‘Oliver, I'm writing a poem here. Keep trying.'

Where was I? Yes, could do with a bit of free association.

Porridge, he muses –

Comes from
pottage
, doesn't it? But what
was
pottage exactly? I consulted the dictionary. ‘Soup or stew. Middle English from Old French
potage
. That which is put in a pot.' Hmm, not particularly helpful. Ah, here we go, ‘oatmeal … pease pudding … A mess of pottage: something of little value, from the exchange by Esau of his birthright for a meal of lentil stew (Genesis 25: 29-34)'. That'll do nicely.

Porridge, he muses. By way of pottage,

Esau's lentil stew –