as she tossed her head.
“Only if you get bolts put in the sides of your neck like the Frankenstein monster.” She cocked her head to one side. “You’re nearly as big as Boris Karloff.”
“More articulate, I hope,” he said, “but I concur with his opinion,” and in an imitation of the monster’s speech announced, “Fooood, goood.”
The restaurant was a small room, simply furnished. The sound of murmured conversations rose and fell. A waitress said, “For two, sir?”
“Please. In the window.” He followed Kitty, as always admiring the sway of her hips, the curve of her calves. He waited until she was seated.
“I’ll bring the menus. Would you care for a drink?” Her accent was Dublin, but not as thick as that of the folks from the Liberties.
“Kitty?”
“While wine would be nice. No, are we having red meat so we’ll have a red?” Kitty never had paid any heed to that convention.
“Bottle of—” He frowned. “Which is the one you like?” He’d only drunk wine with Kitty once since they’d parted a year ago. They’d had a good claret at his folks’ house last week on Graduation Night, the night of their reconciliation. Father had managed to eat at the table and meet Kitty, but had retired to his bed in his study shortly after. For a moment, Fingal felt guilty that he was not at home now, then remembered his father’s words: “There’s absolutely no need for you to haunt this place like Banquo’s ghost.” Bless you, Dad.
“Entre-Deux-Mers,” Kitty said. “If you’ve one chilled.”
“We do, ma’am.” The waitress left.
Kitty leant forward. “I did enjoy the film, Fingal. Good escapist nonsense. Not a patch on Mary Shelley’s original Frankenstein novel, but it was fun. Thank you for taking me,” she pointed out the window, “and I love O’Connell Street. I’d hate to leave Dublin. Just look.”
He did and saw a Dublin United Tramways tram clattering along the centre of the street, a blue flash leaping between the top of the pole and the overhead electrical wire. Cyclists were everywhere, and for a moment he cast a thought to John-Joe Finnegan and wondered how his ankle was mending. Sir Patrick Dun’s was no distance from Lansdowne Road; maybe Fingal would pop round and see how the cooper by trade was getting on.
Motorcars crept along the congested thoroughfare. Fingal noticed a cream Hillman Minx Deluxe 4 and a dark green open Bentley-Rolls V12 Tourer among the numerous Fords and Morrises. Well-dressed people thronged the sidewalks, and on a street corner a man, probably an Italian immigrant, ground the handle of a barrel organ while his monkey, wearing a red waistcoat and fez, held out a tin cup for coins from passersby. And against walls and on street corners raggedy men, women, and children, the halt and the cripples, hands outstretched in supplication, Dublin’s batallions of beggars.
Two streets away people, throngs of people, eked out an existence in the tenements. Out of sight. Out of mind. Well, they weren’t out of his or Ma’s. “O’Connell Street,” he said. “It used to be Sackville Street, you know, until they changed the name. It’s still where the toffs go, but Dublin’s not so pretty a few streets over.”
“I know,” she said. “And it bothers you, doesn’t it?”
He nodded, but smiled. “I’ve saved up telling you ’til we got here, but I’ll be starting work next week, not too far from your flat. In the dispensary in Aungier Place in the Liberties.”
“That’s not Parnell or Merrion Square,” Kitty said.
“I’m not looking for the carriage trade. Neither’s Charlie Greer. He’ll be working with me.”
She touched his hand. “I’m not surprised, Fingal. I still remember you with the patients at Sir Patrick’s. I think you’re going to be happy with your choice.”
“I hope you’re right.” He hesitated. Even with his closest friends, he’d been reticent about explaining exactly why, but he felt completely at
“Only if you get bolts put in the sides of your neck like the Frankenstein monster.” She cocked her head to one side. “You’re nearly as big as Boris Karloff.”
“More articulate, I hope,” he said, “but I concur with his opinion,” and in an imitation of the monster’s speech announced, “Fooood, goood.”
The restaurant was a small room, simply furnished. The sound of murmured conversations rose and fell. A waitress said, “For two, sir?”
“Please. In the window.” He followed Kitty, as always admiring the sway of her hips, the curve of her calves. He waited until she was seated.
“I’ll bring the menus. Would you care for a drink?” Her accent was Dublin, but not as thick as that of the folks from the Liberties.
“Kitty?”
“While wine would be nice. No, are we having red meat so we’ll have a red?” Kitty never had paid any heed to that convention.
“Bottle of—” He frowned. “Which is the one you like?” He’d only drunk wine with Kitty once since they’d parted a year ago. They’d had a good claret at his folks’ house last week on Graduation Night, the night of their reconciliation. Father had managed to eat at the table and meet Kitty, but had retired to his bed in his study shortly after. For a moment, Fingal felt guilty that he was not at home now, then remembered his father’s words: “There’s absolutely no need for you to haunt this place like Banquo’s ghost.” Bless you, Dad.
“Entre-Deux-Mers,” Kitty said. “If you’ve one chilled.”
“We do, ma’am.” The waitress left.
Kitty leant forward. “I did enjoy the film, Fingal. Good escapist nonsense. Not a patch on Mary Shelley’s original Frankenstein novel, but it was fun. Thank you for taking me,” she pointed out the window, “and I love O’Connell Street. I’d hate to leave Dublin. Just look.”
He did and saw a Dublin United Tramways tram clattering along the centre of the street, a blue flash leaping between the top of the pole and the overhead electrical wire. Cyclists were everywhere, and for a moment he cast a thought to John-Joe Finnegan and wondered how his ankle was mending. Sir Patrick Dun’s was no distance from Lansdowne Road; maybe Fingal would pop round and see how the cooper by trade was getting on.
Motorcars crept along the congested thoroughfare. Fingal noticed a cream Hillman Minx Deluxe 4 and a dark green open Bentley-Rolls V12 Tourer among the numerous Fords and Morrises. Well-dressed people thronged the sidewalks, and on a street corner a man, probably an Italian immigrant, ground the handle of a barrel organ while his monkey, wearing a red waistcoat and fez, held out a tin cup for coins from passersby. And against walls and on street corners raggedy men, women, and children, the halt and the cripples, hands outstretched in supplication, Dublin’s batallions of beggars.
Two streets away people, throngs of people, eked out an existence in the tenements. Out of sight. Out of mind. Well, they weren’t out of his or Ma’s. “O’Connell Street,” he said. “It used to be Sackville Street, you know, until they changed the name. It’s still where the toffs go, but Dublin’s not so pretty a few streets over.”
“I know,” she said. “And it bothers you, doesn’t it?”
He nodded, but smiled. “I’ve saved up telling you ’til we got here, but I’ll be starting work next week, not too far from your flat. In the dispensary in Aungier Place in the Liberties.”
“That’s not Parnell or Merrion Square,” Kitty said.
“I’m not looking for the carriage trade. Neither’s Charlie Greer. He’ll be working with me.”
She touched his hand. “I’m not surprised, Fingal. I still remember you with the patients at Sir Patrick’s. I think you’re going to be happy with your choice.”
“I hope you’re right.” He hesitated. Even with his closest friends, he’d been reticent about explaining exactly why, but he felt completely at
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