tradition. The kind of throwback you love so well.’
‘I’ll cherish what I like,’ she said petulantly, and marched back to Aisling.
Chapter Eight
‘Sweet suffering Jesus, Robert.’ Philomena was quivering with rage.
‘What’s the matter, Philomena?’
‘It’s that fat whinge of an American. I’ve a litany of complaints from her that you wouldn’t get from a reverend mother kidnapped into a hoorhouse.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Well, she comes down to breakfast and looks at the menu with a face on her like a wet Good Friday in Leitrim. “What would you like, madam?” says I. “Bagels, cream cheese and a Danish, with a strawberry milkshake on the side,” says she. So as it happens, knowing the ways of Americans, we have some of that muck available. But when I brings it to her she says, “Is the bagel fat-free and the cream cheese lite?” And I says, “I don’t think so.” “And the milk for the milkshake,” she says. “What about that?” “I can do you semi-skimmed, madam,” says I. “That’s useless,” says she. “It’s fattening.”’
Philomena placed her hands on her ample hips. ‘To tell you the truth, it was too much for me. I looks at the cow and says, “Tell you what, missus, if you’re that worried about being fat you’d be better advised to start the day with a jog than a Danish.” She got as mad as a wet hen.’
‘I’ll back you up if there’s any trouble, Philomena.’
‘I’ll let you know. I’ll tell you what though, I wouldn’t be in your shoes if Jesus, Mary and the good Joseph went down on their knees and begged me to. I heard about the fighting last night. You’ve got a right shower there.’
***
‘OK, let’s do a tally, you two,’ said the baroness. ‘How many were we supposed to have and how many have we actually got?’
‘Originally we were supposed to have thirty, of whom at least twenty were to be from the island of Ireland, representing every shade of nationalist and unionist culture. What was it we were promised, Simon? People of the highest quality, by-words for cultural achievement, rooted firmly in their tradition, yet cultivated and open and generous to other cultures.’
‘I did warn you, Robert.’
‘Indeed you did. But remember there was just you on the one hand, sounding cynical, while on the other were Crispin—and even more so, Roddy McCorley and co—telling me of a glittering line-up of prize-winning poets, artists and even—at one stage—the likelihood of an opening address from Seamus Heaney.’ He clapped his hand to his brow. ‘Crispin even told me the Poet Laureate wanted to become involved and make the conference a focus for a new poem on the changing face of these islands.’
The baroness was looking impatient. ‘We know all this. Don’t know why you’re going over old ground again. They caved into the politicos. Surprise. Conference attendance got into the hands of the cultural committees. Surprise surprise. So we’re left with cultural fundamentalists, freebie-lovers, the press-ganged and assorted other tossers. Now talk numbers. What are we down to?’
Amiss began to count on his fingers. ‘Two from the south—Sean O’Farrell, who is here in a sort of half-hearted liaison role with Dublin and someone who has not yet arrived who will replace Theo Mathew. Billy Pratt and Willie Hughes, who represent the different cultural aspirations of two different loyalist paramilitary groups.’
‘Isn’t Hughes a Catholic name?’ asked the baroness.
‘They’re all intermingled,’ said Gibson. ‘Gerry Adams’ surname is English, John Hume’s is Scottish and one of the most vicious loyalist murderers was called Murphy. Usually having a name from the wrong tribe makes them even more fanatical.’
‘OK. That’s four, assuming the Little-Nelly-of-Holy-God substitute turns up.’
‘Mainstream Northern Ireland nationalists aren’t turning up at all,’ said Amiss, ‘and, I may say, only bothered to tell me they
‘I’ll cherish what I like,’ she said petulantly, and marched back to Aisling.
Chapter Eight
‘Sweet suffering Jesus, Robert.’ Philomena was quivering with rage.
‘What’s the matter, Philomena?’
‘It’s that fat whinge of an American. I’ve a litany of complaints from her that you wouldn’t get from a reverend mother kidnapped into a hoorhouse.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Well, she comes down to breakfast and looks at the menu with a face on her like a wet Good Friday in Leitrim. “What would you like, madam?” says I. “Bagels, cream cheese and a Danish, with a strawberry milkshake on the side,” says she. So as it happens, knowing the ways of Americans, we have some of that muck available. But when I brings it to her she says, “Is the bagel fat-free and the cream cheese lite?” And I says, “I don’t think so.” “And the milk for the milkshake,” she says. “What about that?” “I can do you semi-skimmed, madam,” says I. “That’s useless,” says she. “It’s fattening.”’
Philomena placed her hands on her ample hips. ‘To tell you the truth, it was too much for me. I looks at the cow and says, “Tell you what, missus, if you’re that worried about being fat you’d be better advised to start the day with a jog than a Danish.” She got as mad as a wet hen.’
‘I’ll back you up if there’s any trouble, Philomena.’
‘I’ll let you know. I’ll tell you what though, I wouldn’t be in your shoes if Jesus, Mary and the good Joseph went down on their knees and begged me to. I heard about the fighting last night. You’ve got a right shower there.’
***
‘OK, let’s do a tally, you two,’ said the baroness. ‘How many were we supposed to have and how many have we actually got?’
‘Originally we were supposed to have thirty, of whom at least twenty were to be from the island of Ireland, representing every shade of nationalist and unionist culture. What was it we were promised, Simon? People of the highest quality, by-words for cultural achievement, rooted firmly in their tradition, yet cultivated and open and generous to other cultures.’
‘I did warn you, Robert.’
‘Indeed you did. But remember there was just you on the one hand, sounding cynical, while on the other were Crispin—and even more so, Roddy McCorley and co—telling me of a glittering line-up of prize-winning poets, artists and even—at one stage—the likelihood of an opening address from Seamus Heaney.’ He clapped his hand to his brow. ‘Crispin even told me the Poet Laureate wanted to become involved and make the conference a focus for a new poem on the changing face of these islands.’
The baroness was looking impatient. ‘We know all this. Don’t know why you’re going over old ground again. They caved into the politicos. Surprise. Conference attendance got into the hands of the cultural committees. Surprise surprise. So we’re left with cultural fundamentalists, freebie-lovers, the press-ganged and assorted other tossers. Now talk numbers. What are we down to?’
Amiss began to count on his fingers. ‘Two from the south—Sean O’Farrell, who is here in a sort of half-hearted liaison role with Dublin and someone who has not yet arrived who will replace Theo Mathew. Billy Pratt and Willie Hughes, who represent the different cultural aspirations of two different loyalist paramilitary groups.’
‘Isn’t Hughes a Catholic name?’ asked the baroness.
‘They’re all intermingled,’ said Gibson. ‘Gerry Adams’ surname is English, John Hume’s is Scottish and one of the most vicious loyalist murderers was called Murphy. Usually having a name from the wrong tribe makes them even more fanatical.’
‘OK. That’s four, assuming the Little-Nelly-of-Holy-God substitute turns up.’
‘Mainstream Northern Ireland nationalists aren’t turning up at all,’ said Amiss, ‘and, I may say, only bothered to tell me they
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