The Ginger Man - J. P. Donleavy [119]
Down into the Underground. Standing on the platform with a few afternoon people going somewhere. The glassy, smooth train parks neatly. Stepping in and gliding away. I am told whatever else I do in this fantastic Underground, to stay off the Circle Line.
He walked along the windy tunnels. Up and out into this vast station. Throngs. Where is she? I'm late. Track seven. Watch for an Irish face. I couldn't have forgotten what she looks like. Spot me anywhere because I look Victorian from behind. Must greet her with gladness.
In a black coat she came shyly down the platform bent with a large leather bag, biting her lips.
"Hello, Mary."
"Hello, I thought you might not come."
"Not a bit By God you've lost weight Have you been ill?"
"I'm all right I wasn't well for a while."
"Give me the bag. Good Christ what have you got in it? Rocks ?"
"I brought some things to cook with and some plates. And part of a sewing machine. I hope you don't mind?"
"Excellent. Not a bit. We'll check it. I think those are the things we want these days. Now we go over here and take care of this."
Dangerfield led her out of the station. And turned her around to see the building. Take a tour by Danger. See up there and the big pillars. That's architecture.
"Now what do you think of that Mary? What about that?"
"I don't know what to say. I suppose it's nice."
"It's the size Mary, the size. And who paid for it. But we'll go along here now and find a nice restaurant"
"I brought twenty pounds."
"Wow."
Into the warm room with tables along the wall. Danger-field told the boy to bring a little something from the château and a chicken and cheroot too.
"Isn't this expensive, Sebastian?"
"He, eeeeee."
"Why do you laugh?"
"Because the word expensive is no longer in my vocabulary. No longer in use. I think I can safely say that"
"Why?"
"Later on, Mary. Later on for that"
"Well tell me what you've been doing. You look thin. And nothing of mine fits me and I've had to alter this old black dress. I got so worried when I was ill because you didn't write."
"Give me your hand, Mary."
"This is a nice place. I'm glad to be shut of Dublin."
"Lot say that."
"When I got ill and told him I wasn't going to jump for him anymore he was soon up out of his bed."
"What did he say about London?"
"Said he'd have the Guarda. But I told him to go to the devil and if he put another finger to me that I'd have the Guarda."
"What did he say?"
"He'd get the priest to me. I was fed up. I told him his own soul was covered with lies. And that the boys were well away not to have to listen to him again. He's had his own way for long enough. Told me he was an old man and didn't have long to go and that I shouldn't leave him alone. And I said you want me to stay now. Me who has been out with men. Then he said his heart was ticking its last and to call the priest for him before I left the house."
"O I wouldn't be too hard now. Poor man. Perhaps the only little comfort he's after is to poison the Pope.'"
"I'm glad he's had to suffer. And to be shut of it all. The Tolka was the only thing I enjoyed anymore. To walk across Phoenix Park to Chapleizod and Lucan Road. And go into Sarsfield. It's so lovely along there by the river in the trees. I used to think of you there. Don't laugh, I really did."
The smell of wine and sweet chicken meat. The waiter bringing sprouts and baked potatoes. Whee. Were it not for my tram