She watched the bird as it pranced about, sending the smaller sparrows hoping for a crumb scattering as it asserted its bullyish presence. She liked bullies even less than she liked crusts. She’d always been one to stand up for the underdog. Sure, look at the trouble she’d gotten into with Sister Evangeline when she’d told her she was being very unfair to poor Patricia Murphy. She only stuttered all the more when she was shouted at and how was the sting of the ruler being brought down on her hand supposed to help her speech? It was why she dreamed of becoming a fully-fledged journalist. She wanted to report on the injustices she saw around her. Put those bullies to rights. And then, one day, she’d publish a novel. A great sweeping, epic of a thing. Oh yes, Cliona thought, she had a plan alright.
She finished what was left of her sandwich, sweeping the crumbs from the lap of her ink-blue cigarette pants. Mammy was aghast at her insistence on wearing trousers to work, telling her it wasn’t right and what would the neighbours think seeing her prance down the street bold as brass in them. Clio told her, if it was good enough for Katherine Hepburn in her heyday then it was good enough for Cliona Whelan thanks very much. How could she expect to ever have a serious assignment passed her way if she looked like a cake decoration? Besides, she’d reminded Mammy, she’d bought the pants with her own money.
Indeed, the small brown envelope she’d been handed at the end of her first week’s work had been her wages. They’d burned a hole in her pocket and she’d felt ever so grown up shopping on her own. She’d come back down to earth with a bump when Mammy had greeted her at the door, eyeing her shopping bags before holding her hand out. ‘You’re earning now, Cliona, it’s time you paid for your keep.’
A gentle breeze whipped over the green and Clio felt it tickle the downy hair on her arms. She’d rolled the sleeves of her white shirt up in order to feel the sun’s kiss. The seagull was still there stalking about and so she flung the remainder of her crust in the opposite decoration, kicking her foot out at the greedy bird and telling him to shoo and give the others a chance. He squawked and flapped at her indignantly.
‘What did the poor guy ever do to you?’ a crisply cut American accent asked.
Clio looked up startled, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun, to see the rangy outline of a student, with a pile of text books tucked under his arms, grinning down at her. He looked to be around twenty or so and had a quiet confidence about himself as he waited for her reply. She automatically noted he was taller than she was.
‘The seagull?’
He nodded and she could tell by the way his sandy-blond hair blew into his eyes, moved by the sudden gust of wind, that he didn’t use Brylcreem.
‘I wanted to make sure the sparrows got fed,’ Cliona said, her usual bravado slipping under his gaze. His blue eyes were the colour of the marbles her little brother played with and she tried not to stare but there was something about him that made her want to keep looking.
He held out his free hand, ‘I’m Gerald Byrne, but everybody calls me Gerry.’
‘I’m Cliona Whelan, but everybody calls me Clio.’ She was rather pleased with her comeback, even more so when she received an approving grin. She liked the way the dimples in his cheeks softened his face when he smiled and she liked the trail of freckles across the bridge of his nose, too.
‘And what are you studying...?’
She filled in the gap, ‘Clio, you can call me Clio.’ She conveniently pushed her outburst to her mammy regarding the shortening of her name aside. Cliona suddenly seemed far too much of a mouthful, too serious all of a sudden, which was fine when it came to work but no good when you were talking to a handsome American. She half wished she’d listened to Mammy now and worn her fitted jacket and pencil skirt. She’d held it out hopefully to Clio that morning, telling her it looked a picture on her. Remembering his assumption, she replied, ‘Oh, and I’m not a student.’
‘What do you do then, Clio?’ He eyed her notebook curiously and she snapped it shut, pinching her bottom lip between her teeth as she debated how she should describe herself. Journalist or reporter was a stretch given she spent the best part of her day typing other people’s work and making tea. In the end she went with, ‘I work for the Times.’
‘I’m a Times man myself. I was reading this morning about that Soviet satellite, Sputnik. It’s been seen over the city a second time. It’s like something from a
