Cliona nodded. Every newspaper in the city would have been hustling to get their story to print on time for that morning’s run. ‘The space race has begun.’ She quoted the headline.
‘Do you write for the paper?’
My, but he had a lot of questions given they were complete strangers. Cliona was unnerved. It was usually her who had all the questions. Perhaps it was just the American way of things. She liked his assumption that it was a possibility she was a journalist though, perhaps the trousers had been the right choice after all and, flattered, she told him, ‘I’m a junior typist but I want to be a reporter. You have to work your way up.’
‘Do you enjoy it?’
‘I love it,’ she replied simply. ‘There’s always something happening.’ The clacking of typewriter keys, the shuffling of papers, telephones ringing, reporters anxiously pacing, and best of all the buzz of a big story about to break. It filled her days with excitement and anticipation. It was a long way from the typing pool to being out in the field breaking your teeth on a meaty story though. ‘You’re at Trinity?’ She gestured to the books he was carrying.
‘Yup. Third year law student on exchange from Boston Law College. My great-grandparents were both from Dublin.’ He shrugged. ‘Most of Boston’s from somewhere in Ireland. My folks thought it was high time I came back to the motherland and saw the place for myself.’ He hesitated and then asked, ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
She looked him over, this confident, good-looking boy from Boston and found herself telling him she didn’t mind, she’d have to go in ten minutes or so anyway. Sure, what was the harm? He sat down, his legs stretched out in front of him as he leaned his head back, raising his face to the sun and closing his eyes for a fleeting moment. ‘Those rays are good. I think the whole city is outside enjoying the weather.’ He gestured around him at the busy slip of green. ‘Or at least the entire college.’
‘That’s the Irish for you. We turn into basking African meerkats at the slightest hint of sunshine.’
He laughed. ‘Wow, that’s some analogy.’
‘I saw a photograph of them in a book once, all of them with their heads pointing up at the sun. I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘What were you writing in there? If you don’t mind me asking?’ He pointed to her notebook.
‘I collect character descriptions.’
He looked puzzled.
‘I write down things about people that stand out or catch my eye.’
‘Uh-huh, but why?’
‘Because I want to write a novel one day and I figured that it would be good to have something to call on when I describe my characters.’
‘So, it’s a reference book?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘You’ve a pen behind your ear, did you know that?’ There was a cheeky glint in the blue irises.
She pulled it down and opened her notebook making an entry.
‘Is that shorthand?’
Cliona nodded.
‘What does it say?’
‘A Bostonian law student with intelligent, deep-set blue eyes and twin dimples. Hair a curious mix somewhere between blond and brown. A looming, athletic build. Wearing brown trousers and a green sweater and carrying a clutch of text books. An air of insatiable curiosity about him.’
Gerry looked taken aback momentarily and this time when he threw his head back it was to laugh. Clio grinned and snapped her book shut.
‘Look over there,’ he said once he’d sobered. She followed the direction of where he’d pointed and saw a young woman with the most unusual shade of red hair. She stood out from the crowd, not just because she was pretty, but because of the confidence with which she moved and Cliona felt something stir. A kernel of something unpleasant knotted in her stomach, an unfamiliar feeling and she didn’t like it. Nor did she understand why, his pointing out a good-looking girl, should make her react that way. Why did she suddenly want to be pretty and feminine like that girl? Her looks had never mattered all that much to her. You were given what you were given and there wasn’t much you could do about it, so you might as well make the most of it and get on with things. She was glad for the most part that she wasn’t a great beauty. To be beautiful would be a distraction from what she had to say.
She wasn’t unattractive. According to Mammy’s women’s magazine she had a heart-shaped face and she’d been blessed with clear skin, bright inquisitive grey eyes and a nose that could have been a little smaller but one that was passable. Her nan had sighed over her waist just the other day, saying she could remember when she’d had a waist you could fit her hands around like Clio’s. It was hard to imagine Nan ever being small, she’d always had a middle like a sack of spuds, but eight children would do that to you, and there was another good reason not to fall in love, and get married.
‘Hair the colour of autumn fire, skin like milk,’ Gerry began.
Clio snapped her notebook shut and got up, annoyance pricking. So much for him being different. ‘I’ve got to go.’ She really did have to go, she only had five minutes to get back behind her typewriter. She remembered her manners. ‘It was nice talking to you, Gerry.’ And then, without looking back, she strode off unaware of his admiring gaze as he watched her wind her way through the various basking bodies to the street.
Chapter 15
Roisin drove down the unfamiliar treelined street Jenny now lived on, keeping an eye out for the numbers. It was a far cry from the one-bedroomed apartment on the Quays she’d once swanned about in, where Roisin had dossed down on her lumpy old sofa many times after a night on the lash. Her hands tapped the steering wheel enjoying the poppy beat of the music playing. It was a treat being out
