“Jaysus, Giddy, I wish you’d wear a patch over that eye, I do be exhausted just trying to listen to you,” Marion sighed.
“Ah, fuck off, you,” Giddy Eye replied. A woman at the next table butted in, “Fuck off yourself.”
“She wasn’t talking to you,” explained Agnes, then, turning back to the girls, she announced, “Right, then, it’s the Macushla. I hope that weirdo isn’t there again,” Agnes added as an afterthought.
“What weirdo?” Philomena wanted to know. Marion took up the story.
“He’s not a weirdo, it’s Tommo Monks the coalman.”
“Oh, him.” Philomena knew him. Tommo Monks delivered coal to Philomena’s house every Monday.
Marion went on: “Every time we go to the Macushla, he does be standing across the floor just staring over at Agnes. She thinks he’s a weirdo.”
“He is,” said Agnes.
“He’s not,” Marion argued. “Maybe he’s just shy and he’s working up to asking you to dance.”
“Oh Jesus, I hope not. I hate saying no to a fella; it’s horrible, isn’t it?”
Now, Agnes had meant the question for general reception, but she was looking at Philomena when the question ended. Philomena retorted, “What are you fucking asking me for?” Philomena had never said no to a man in her life. In the ballrooms, the men would very unkindly refer to a less-than-beautiful girl as a “bagger.” This meant you could make love to this girl provided she wore a bag over her head. Philomena, who was not blessed with beauty and had a virtual model of a nine-hole golf course on her face, had been described as a “two-bagger.” This meant that the man wore a bag also, in case hers blew off. The entire thing is redundant, however, for, the truth be told—and it rarely is when men gather to discuss sex—getting to a stage of having sex with any of these teenage Catholic girls was nigh on impossible. If he was lucky, a boy might get a kiss or, as they say in Dublin, a “ware.” If he was very, very lucky, he might get an outside feel of a breast. But getting anywhere near the nether regions took more than luck; usually it took a gold ring.
The girls sipped on their drinks. Around the room there was female chatter everywhere. From the far side of the partition could be heard the raucous laughter of the men, the clinking of their glasses, the ringing of the tills, and in the background some man coughing and spluttering as he choked on Marion’s mother’s toenail. Giddy Eye had gone very quiet. Agnes figured she was sulking about Marion’s patch remark. “Are you all right, Giddy Eye?” she asked.
“I’d look fucking stupid with a patch on my eye,” Giddy Eye said. Agnes looked to Marion and scowled. Marion knew that look of Agnes’: it was saying, Apologize now. Marion threw her eyes to heaven.
“Giddy, I was just joking about the patch,” was as close as Marion was going to come to an apology. It was enough to satisfy Giddy.
“Really?” she asked the wall.
“Really,” said Marion. “Sure you’d hardly notice it,” she lied. “Here,” said Marion, “did you hear this one?” The girls leaned in, for they knew there was a joke coming. Marion giggled, as she always did before she told a joke. She began.
“Three cross-eyed men were up in court in front of a cross-eyed judge?” The girls nodded and were smiling in anticipation. “So the judge says to the first fella, ‘What’s your name?’ And the second fella says, ‘O’Brien.’ ‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ says the judge, and the third fella said, ‘I never opened me mouth.’” The girls howled with laughter. Well, two of them did. Giddy did not even crack a smile. Marion slapped her leg and said, “Ah, Giddy, it’s just a joke, don’t be sulking.”
“I’m not,” answered Giddy. “I don’t get it.” Now the girls screeched with laughter, a puzzled Giddy sitting there asking, “What? What?”
At about eleven-thirty Madigan’s Pub began to empty. Outside, the crowds were gathered in groups, all trying to decide where they would go from here. Of course it was Marion that led the way as the four girls cut a swathe through the chattering crowd. No standing around for these four: they knew exactly where they were going. The Friday-night ritual. First they went to Fortes Fish and Chip Shop, to satisfy Marion’s addiction to fried food after every drinking session. Agnes, Giddy, and Nine Warts stood outside while Marion bought her usual fish and chips, with extra vinegar. Marion would douse the chipped potatoes with so much vinegar that as she was eating the fries out of the bag the excess vinegar would drip from between her fingers. The girls would make her walk twenty paces behind them as they made the long uphill walk along Parnell Square to the National Ballroom. Marion would continue to take part in conversations as she was walking behind the other three eating from her steaming bag, giving the impression sometimes of being a lunatic talking to herself, and crying—the vinegar and steam making her eyes water.
As they walked along that night, Giddy Eye spoke worriedly.
“I’m not going to get in here, I’m telling you I’m barred,” she moaned.
“Shut up, Giddy Eye. They won’t remember you. Just keep your eyes straight in front,” Marion roared from behind. The other two girls giggled.
“Oops, sorry, Giddy. You know what I mean, Giddy Eye, just don’t look at them and walk straight in, they won’t even notice,” Marion tried to explain, the vinegar tears streaming from her own eyes.
When at last they arrived at the National Ballroom, they could see a fracas happening at the stepped entrance to the ballroom. A small crowd watched. When they got closer they could see there was a young man arguing with a bouncer. The young man was making an effort to convince the bouncer that he was not drunk.
“You’re drunk. Now, go away,” the bouncer was saying as he tried to ease the young man back down the steps.
“I’m not drunk, I’m . . . Eh . . .” The man searched his mind for a medical condition that would meet two criteria. One, it must make him appear intoxicated. And, two, it must be easy to pronounce when you are as intoxicated as he was.
“. . . I’m a bleedin’ diabetic,” he settled on. It might have worked had the “-ic” part of the last word not sent a splash of alcohol-tainted saliva shooting from the man’s mouth right onto the chin of the bouncer. The bouncer lost it. Using just one arm, the bouncer lifted the “diabetic” down the remaining steps and sent him on his merry way. Our four girls had no such problems. Agnes had been correct. Not one bouncer gave Giddy Eye a second glance.
Once inside, the girls queued up for the cloakroom to deposit their coats. This was not only necessary for safety’s sake, but also as an escape mechanism. The ballroom had lately been fitted with ultraviolet lights, which tended to make all the men standing under them appear as though they were tanned Italians. Sometimes it was not possible until one saw the man in the cold light of a normal electric bulb to realize that the “fine thing” a girl thought she had picked was actually a pale Buster Keaton look-alike. It was on the line at the end of the night to collect your coat that was the best place to discover this, and if necessary a girl could then lose herself in the crowd.
Within minutes the girls were settled at the “girls’ wall,” each with her glass of cola in hand. Marion scanned their immediate surroundings to be sure there were no bouncers about. When she was sure it was safe, she pulled the snifter of vodka from her bag. Wearing her elfish little grin that Agnes loved so much, Marion poured a dash of vodka into each of the girls’ colas. The four happy girls tapped glasses and cried, “Cheers.” As Agnes took a swig from her glass, her smile vanished and her eyes widened.
“Oh, shite,
he’s
here,” she spluttered.
“What?” Giddy Eye called over the music. Agnes leaned forward, and the three other girls huddled in.
“Don’t look now, but it’s the weirdo.” Agnes glanced up, then re-entered the huddle. “He’s standing over beside the third pillar.” They all looked. He saw them looking and gave a smile and waved over at them. Giddy Eye and Philomena waved back.
“Will youse fuck off wavin’, you’ll only encourage him.” Agnes turned away so her back was now to the young man.
“He’s a big fella, isn’t he?” Giddy Eye observed.
“Stop looking,” Agnes demanded, speaking through her clenched teeth as she did so.
But they didn’t stop looking. “He cleans up well, he’s not bad once he gets the coal dust off’a him,” Philomena announced. Agnes threw her eyes to the heavens and pretended to be looking at something very interesting on the wall.
“Uh-oh,” the girls said in unison.
“What?” Agnes asked, over her shoulder.
“He’s coming over,” said Philomena. In one swift move Agnes put her glass on the table and grabbed Marion by the arm.
“What are you doing?” Marion cried.
“Come on, you, we’re dancing,” Agnes ordered.
“Will you wait a minute, for Jaysus’ sake?” Marion was trying to place her glass on the table as she was being dragged toward the dance floor. Before Marion knew it, she was jiving in the middle of the heaving mass on the beechwood floor. From the corner of her eye Agnes caught sight of Tommo Monks as he stopped walking. He stood for a moment, thwarted. The smile left his face and, with his shoulders sagging in disappointment, he returned to his pillar.
Throughout the next two hours, Tommo Monks made it halfway across the floor four times. On each occasion Agnes again and again dragged Marion onto the dance floor. Then, suddenly, he was gone. His pillar was deserted. Marion was glad of the rest.
“For fuck’s sake, Agnes, you have me exhausted,” Marion got out through her panting breath.
“Yeh, I’m sorry. Well, at least it worked. Maybe now he got the message,” Agnes said as she opened her purse and pulled out a cigarette.
“Excuse me,” came a deep voice from behind Agnes. She froze, the cigarette in her lips, the lighted match just inches from the tip of it. Agnes didn’t have to look behind her, she knew it was him. Tommo spoke again. “I’m sorry to interrupt you girls, and I know you must be tired, I’ve been watching the two of you dancing all night. But would you possibly have just one more dance in you?” His voice was slow and even. Over her shoulder, Agnes could get a faint smell of alcohol from his breath. She spun around. Her voice when it came was sharp—a mixture of being startled, and being quite pissed off that she had not fully gotten rid of the man.
“Now, listen to me, you,” she spat, and stepped right up to Tommo’s face. “I have been dancing all night and I’m tired all right. Now I’m going to have a smoke and a break. So, lover boy, if you don’t mind I’ll sit this one out.” The man was blushing now, and taken aback by Agnes’ outburst. He was flustered. He dropped his head and pushed his hands into his pockets.
“I’m sorry, love” he said to Agnes. “I wasn’t asking you. I was asking
you.
” He looked past Agnes to Marion. All three girls turned toward Marion, aghast. Marion’s face lit up with a huge smile.
“Sure, Tommo, I’ll dance with you.”
She took his arm, and they took to the floor for a slow dance. The music played softly, and Marion pressed her face against Tommo’s body, just about at his navel, the leather belt on his pants rubbing under her chin. Slowly the ever-so-mismatched pair moved in a circle around the floor. Streaks of sparkling light reflected from the gigantic crystal ball spinning in the center of the ceiling streamed across them like slow-motion fireworks. Marion beamed a huge smile over at Agnes, who was standing staring at the two, her still-unlit cigarette hanging from her lips, a black burnt-out matchstick in her hand. Tommo Monks was the happiest man in the ballroom.
He leaned down and whispered into Marion’s ear, “You smell beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Marion cooed up to him.
“What scent is that?” he asked softly.
“Vinegar,” she answered.
He smiled, and Marion closed her eyes to enjoy the moment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It was a whirlwind romance. Tommo just swept Marion off her feet—not a great journey, mind you. Over the next six months, Agnes saw little of Marion except in work. She now made her visits to Dolly each Sunday alone, as Marion and Tommo were always going somewhere. A picnic on Bray Head, or a visit to the zoo, or some such. In the evenings, Agnes had just Connie to talk to and nobody to listen to. She missed Marion. At work, Nellie was getting more and more sick, so Agnes now did the wholesalers alone, and Nellie came to the stall for just a couple of hours each day. Agnes envied Marion. To have someone in your life that cared for you. Someone to share everything with. Someone who would listen and laugh at your jokes. Children. A life. She was becoming more wistful by the day.
She was standing by the stall thinking some of these thoughts when Marion interrupted her. “Penny for your thoughts,” Marion said.
“They’re not worth it.” Agnes smiled at her friend. Marion produced a packet of cigarettes, and they both lit up and sat on the apple box.
“Nellie out again?” Marion asked, although she knew the answer.
“Yep. I don’t know what’s the matter with her. She won’t go to a doctor and she’s getting worse by the day.” Agnes really was worried, this wasn’t idle chat.
“So. How are you?” Marion asked.
“I’m all right.”
“D’ye miss me?” Marion giggled.
But Agnes’ reply was serious. “Yeh, Marion, I do. I miss you awful.”
“Well, I miss you too, something terrible.” Marion linked her arm into Agnes’. “I told Tommo. I said I’ll see him every Monday, Friday, and Saturday. The rest of the week I’m seeing me friend Agnes.” She smiled.