"O goodness yes. I love everything to do with the country and I sometimes, I know, am unbearably enthusiastic. You mustn't feel you've got to shoot or ride. Honestly. I only asked because if you did shoot, we have a shoot. And if you rode we could ride. Or weekends, hunt. And O Lord, really, if only you would like to go for walks that would be awfully nice."
"That's what I would like to do. More tea."
"I must be going. I had only meant to pass a moment. It's been such a beautiful afternoon. Balmy and calm. And I'm so pleased you'll come for lunch Sunday. I did often think of you and your Sunday appointment in Rathgar. You mustn't mind uncle, he blusters a bit about the Empire. He is sweet. Horticulture and astronomy are his passions."
"That's interesting."
"O you know he potters about but he has the largest private telescope in Ireland. I'd better warn you. You'll get a conducted tour."
"I'm awfully interested in the stars."
"Well then we have a date. I am glad I perked up my nerve. I thought you might be awfully busy or something and Fd be shooed away."
"O Lord Miss Fitzdare. What a thing to think."
"Fve not ever been in rooms in this part of college before."
"Perhaps I could show you, I mean you wouldn't mind, would you, it's only my bedroom."
"Well yes, do. Show me."
"Well. Certainly. It's rather barren I fear. But there we are. Obviously that's my bed. Giving me permanent curvature of the spine. I rigged up that little lamp there. I'm not much of an electrician. I'm sure to be electrocuted."
"O you must be careful."
At the open door Balthazar B turning to Miss Fitzdare. She smiles. And turns away back into the drawing room. Glancing over the books in the case on the wall.
"Goodness. Etruscan pottery. O do you go to the London auctions."
"Yes."
"You have all their catalogues."
"A way of spending a not unpleasant afternoon. Tarrying around the galleries."
"I'm sure you're one of those people who stick to Meissen onion pattern."
"That's extraordinary. How did you know Miss Fitzdare."
"O I knew."
"Would you like to see my scullery."
"I'd adore to. O mustn't say that word you took me to task over once before."
"O no, do please adore. I mean I'm quite happy you said that word. I'm afraid things are rather a muddle in here. That's the larder. Where I keep my marmite and cornflakes."
"What's that."
"O it's my peanut butter. I have it sent from Boston."
"Is it nice."
"It's scrumptious with strawberry preserve and butter in a sandwich. And in here. My two burner stove with grill.' "That's rather elegant."
"Left by a rich American I believe. Who couldn't stand the bitter cold and fled back to New Orleans. He used to lie in that room I understand, covered in coats and blankets, surrounded by hot water bottles and an electric fire shining on him through the night and he'd wake frozen."
"O the poor man."
"Horace arranged to get most of these things he left. Horace has been awfully kind to me. That's my pail of water. That's my turf bin. Beefy has one with a false bottom. You can hide underneath, through a little secret door. But that's very hush hush."
"How is your friend Beefy. One hears so many stories and rumours about him. I don't know quite what to believe. He seems such a kindly person."
"He is."
"It's horrid that people don't mind their own business."
"What do you hear."
"Nothing. Not anything worth repeating. And what's in here."
"Well I made a little effort to use this room as an antechamber. It's where the American driven out by the bitter cold made his last stand. I use it for nothing in particular at all. That's a little print I bought."
"It's nice."
"And those are early editions of zoology texts."
"O aren't they lovely. How wonderful. Wherever did you get them."
"On the Quays."
"You are a strange one Mr. B. One never knows about people. I never would have thought you collected books. I don't mean that in any way derogatory. But when one saw you in your enormous car, I thought you were the complete sporting gent. And not bookish at all."
"Well, Miss Fitzdare, I fear you really still don't know me. Now. You see over here. Notice, all locked up out of sight. But there you are."
"Goodness, magazines."
"Movie magazines. That's really what I read."
"I won't believe it. O I think you're having me on."
"It's absolute gospel. That's how I while away my days."
"O you don't."
"I do."
"You're reading morphology."
"It's just one of my guilty days. I settled down to some morphology. Usually I'm engrossed with film stars. I like the reckless abandon with which they live."
"O Mr. B you do amaze me. Thank you for showing me your rooms."
"Thank you for coming to see me."
"I'm awfully glad I did."
"I'm glad you did."
"So till Sunday. If you can manage about one."
"Yes. That's splendid."
"My coat."
"O yes. Sorry."
"Thank you."
"I can never hold the sleeves in their proper place. Can you manage."
"Yes. Thank you."
"You're not wearing your little silver jumping horse."
"My you've got a vivid memory, Mr. B. You do notice things."
"Yes. I do."
"I'm warned. Must go. Thank you so much for tea. It was awfully good."
"Not at all. So nice having you."
"Well thank you."
"Thank you."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
The door closing as Miss Fitzdare stepped out into the dimly lit hall. She'll go down the stone steps. And if I get to the scullery window. I can look out and watch her go. In her black coat. Under the lamp post. By the slung chains. She turns her head. O Lord. She waves. O heavens. I've got to give her everything in my smile. Caught watching. Perhaps I shouldn't have been. Then she shouldn't have turned. And she did. She likes me. I'm going to lunch. What about that. For joy. O God this is awfully good. On an otherwise doubtful day. Jolly and scrumptious. When least you expect something beautiful happens. She asked me. To lunch. She did. O God on that day. Please don't let me stray. Make me go and catch the tram. Go rolling along the tracks. As goes now the last sight of her. A black spot between the Rubric and all the converging perpendicular slabs of granite. On her silk stock-inged legs. Her hair floating darkly behind. I may never have to be sad again. If we go cantering up over the hills and heather.
Balthazar dressed at seven in a double breasted black pin striped suit. Light blue shirt and black silk tie. To pass now outwards. Across the bumpitibump Front Square. Lanterns lit over the dining hall steps. And one over the big granite doorway. The sky morose and grey. The wind freshening. How will she look after all these years. And why did she come. How does one meet one's mother.
Climbing the steps of this hotel. Through the swing doors. And across the black and white floor. Stand here and look. The little groups. And there. That woman sitting in the corner. Her legs crossed. Large wide hat and can't see her hair. A long black cigarette holder. And next to her a dark man. About my age.
Balthazar crossing the faint brown carpet towards the beige settee. And glass topped table between the chairs. The two figures rising. My mother's hand touches me on the shoulder and her perfumed powder on the cheek.
"Balthazar."
"Hello mother."
"You're tall. And too thin. Otherwise you look as I expected. This is Georgie, Georgie my son Balthazar.' "How do you do.' "I am honoured to meet you Balthazar.' "Please sit down now both of you. What can I get you to drink."
"Sherry."
"Good. What we are having too."