by John Boyne
“I’m not being a snob,” insisted Maude. “I only ask because if these people are unaccustomed to fine dining they might feel intimidated by the prospect. Faced with competing sets of cutlery they might think that we’re mocking them and react to their humiliation by despising you even more. You forget that I’m a novelist, Charles. I have a keen understanding of human nature.”
My adoptive father’s tongue bulged in his cheek as he considered this. She had a point. “Well, what do you suggest I do?” he asked eventually. “It’s a five-course meal. There’s a dozen pieces of cutlery at each table setting. I can hardly stick labels on each one, saying, this is the fish knife, this is the bread knife, this is the pudding fork, can I?”
“No,” said Maude. “And it would be impossible to find labels that small anyway. Particularly at such short notice. We’d need to order them in.”
Charles stared at her and seemed on the verge of laughing, which would surely have shocked both of us, as it was a sound with which we were entirely unfamiliar.
“Is there anything else we need to know?” asked Maude, glancing at her watch. “Or can we leave now?”
“Am I holding you up?” asked Charles. “Is there some place you need to be? Is the local tobacconist having a one-hour sale on cigarettes, perhaps?”
“You know I don’t care for jokes,” she said, standing up and smoothing down her skirt. I glanced at Charles and was surprised to see how he stared at her, his eyes looking her up and down with unfiltered desire, for she was still a very beautiful woman. Also, she knew how to dress. “What time are they arriving anyway? I haven’t put my face on yet.”
“Another half hour,” said Charles, and she nodded and slipped out of the room.
“Wouldn’t the judge mind if he found out?” I asked a few moments later, after Charles had returned to his papers and seemed to have forgotten that I was still there. In fact, he jumped a little in the seat when I spoke.
“Wouldn’t the judge mind what?” he asked.
“The fact that you’re inviting four of the jurors to dinner. Wouldn’t he think there was something dishonest about that?”
Charles smiled and looked at me with something approaching tenderness in his eyes. “Oh, my dear boy,” he said. “You really aren’t an Avery, are you? It was the judge’s idea.”
The Perfect Family
“Might I say, Mr. Avery—”
“Please, let’s not stand on ceremony. Call me Charles.”
“Might I say, Charles, that I’ve long maintained an interest in the law,” said Denis Wilbert, the pedophile schoolteacher from Dorset Street, who had shaken my hand upon arriving and held on to it, sandwiched between his two sweaty paws, for much longer than necessary, causing me to run to the bathroom immediately to wash it. “I follow it in the papers, you see. The work of An Garda Síochána. The various trials, the barristers, the solicitors and what have you. The High Court appeals and the constitutional challenges. I actually considered reading law in university until I realized that my true calling lay with children. I’m never truly happy unless I’m in the company of a little boy. As many little boys as possible, in fact! But I’m ashamed to say that there have been times when I’ve believed that if a man stands accused in the dock, then he’s probably guilty of the crime—”
“Or the woman,” interrupted Jacob Turpin, the pervert dockworker who liked to spend his evenings lurking around the Milltown Road, waiting for little girls to cross his path so that he could treat them to a quick flash of his shortcomings.
“Please, Mr. Turpin,” said Wilbert, who seemed to consider himself a cut above due to his superior education. “If you don’t mind, I might just finish what I was saying to Charles and then, if you have something pertinent to add, you can—”
“I only meant that you find women in the dock too,” said Turpin, whose bright-red hair, almost luminous in its hue, was strangely hypnotic. “There was this lassie who worked in the offices at CIÉ and she was running a scam with the invoices and got five years for it. Sure you wouldn’t be up to them, would you? The women, I mean.”
“As I was saying,” continued Wilbert, raising his voice now so as not to be interrupted again, “I thought that if a man stood accused in the dock, then not only was he probably guilty but that he was also a disreputable sort, the type that society should banish to the wilderness, like a leper or an Australian. But this evening, sitting in this wonderful home, eating this fine dinner in the company of such a respectable family, it puts a lie to that notion and I disavow myself of it. I disavow myself of it wholeheartedly and without prejudice! And if I may, I’d like to raise my glass to you, Charles, and wish you well over the days to come as you endure this difficult and unjust ordeal.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Joe Masterson, the bus driver from Templeogue with a prurient interest in horsewear-related pornography, who had scarcely stopped drinking since arriving in Dartmouth Square. He downed his glass of wine and looked expectantly at the bottle in the center of the table; when no one offered him a refill, he helped himself, which even I knew went against dinner-party etiquette.
“You’re very kind,” said Charles, smiling benevolently at his guests. “All of you. However, I hope you don’t think for a moment that my invitation for you to join me and Maude for dinner tonight was made out of anything other than a desire to get to know you better.”
“But of course it wasn’t your invitation at all, was it?” asked Charlotte Hennessy, the fourth juror present and the only lady. “It was Mr. Woodbead’s. And none of us knew that we were coming to your house. We were under the impression that we were going to his.”
“As I explained earlier, dear lady,” said Charles, “Max was called away on urgent business and, having no way of contacting you, he asked me to step in as your host.”
“You’re a gentleman and a scholar,” said Masterson.
“But then why did he invite us here?” asked Mrs. Hennessy.
“He’s having some renovations done to his own home,” explained Charles. “And so he’s been staying with us for a little while. Of course, I hadn’t planned on staying in tonight. It’s my regular evening with the local chapter of St. Vincent de Paul. And to be honest, I thought my presence might be misconstrued as prejudicial. But I couldn’t have allowed you to show up and be turned away without your dinner. That’s not how we do things in Dartmouth Square.”
“So many unusual circumstances,” replied Mrs. Hennessy. “And so many coincidences. It’s almost unbelievable.”
“Sometimes the truth is,” Charles replied smoothly. “But I’m glad things have worked out in the way they have. Sitting in the dock every day and looking across at your honest faces I’ve been struck time and again by how deeply I would like to know you all in private life, away from the rancid atmosphere of the courtroom.”
“I’ve always said,” announced Turpin, reaching down to scratch himself and doing a thoroughly good job of it, “that the man with the most class is the man who doesn’t recognize the class system. There’s many in your position who wouldn’t have the likes of us in their house.”
“With respect, Mr. Turpin,” said Wilbert, taking off his spectacles, which I noticed he did every time that he wanted to appear serious. “I am a master at a prestigious boarding school. I hold a Bachelor’s degree in Mathematics. My father was a pharmacist and my mother once gave an interview on Radio Éireann regarding the best type of flour to use in the baking of a traditional Irish barmbrack. I would consider myself to be the equal of any man.”
“Oh right enough,” said Turpin, chastised. “Where do you live then, Denis? Do you have a big house like this one?”
“I happen to live with my mother,” replied Wilbert, sitting up straight, prepared to fend off any attacks on his character. “She’s not getting any younger and needs me to care for her. Of course,” he added, staring directly at me and speaking in a very deliberate fashion, “I have my own room and there are many nights when she’s out at b
ingo and I can do as I please.”
“Do you not have a wife, Mr. Wilbert?” asked Maude from the other end of the table, her voice carrying so sharply that I jumped. “Is there not a Mrs. Wilbert lurking in the undergrowth somewhere?”
“Sadly not,” he replied, blushing slightly. “I have not been blessed with good fortune in that department.”
“The happiest day of my life,” remarked Charles, putting down his knife and fork, and I swear that I could see tears forming in his eyes as he spoke, “was the day that Maude agreed to marry me. I didn’t think I had a chance. But I also knew that I could achieve anything with her by my side and that our love would somehow sustain us through good times and bad.”
We all, as one, turned to Maude in anticipation of her reaction; had I known at the time who Joan Crawford was, I would have said that she was giving us her very best Joan Crawford, an expression that mixed contempt and vulnerability as she took a long drag of her cigarette and blew the smoke from her lips so steadily that it created a miasma behind which her true feelings could hide.
“I’m on to my second wife,” said Masterson. “My first died when she was thrown from her horse. She was a show jumper, you see. Four-year-old event horses. I still keep her outfits in the wardrobe in the spare room and sometimes I like to go in there and just rub my hand along the velvet or give them an old sniff to remember her. I asked my current wife to model them for me but she’s fierce peculiar about things like that. To be honest, and I only say this because I feel that I’m among friends, I wish I’d never married again. My first wife was a lovely girl. The new one…well, she has a mouth on her, that’s all I’m saying.”
“A mouth on her?” asked Mrs. Hennessy. “Isn’t that a normal thing? How would the poor woman breathe without a mouth?”
“Ah now, you know what I mean,” said Masterson, laughing and looking around at the other men while jerking his thumb in her direction as if to say, And here’s another one, wha’? “She gives me the backchat all the time. I’ve told her I’ll get the priest in one of these days to her if she doesn’t buck up her ideas.”
“What a lucky woman,” said Mrs. Hennessy, turning away from him. “Did I read somewhere that you were married once before too, Mr. Avery?” she asked, looking at Charles.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Did you?”
“Tell us about you, Cyril,” said Wilbert, winking at me in such a lascivious way that I squirmed in my seat. “Do you enjoy school? Are you attentive to your studies?”
“It’s all right,” I said.
“And what’s your favorite subject?”
I thought about it. “Probably history,” I said.
“Not mathematics?”
“No, I’m not very good at mathematics.”
“Did I mention that I have a Bachelor’s degree in Mathematics?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Charles, Maude, Mrs. Hennessy, Turpin, Masterson and I in unison.
“Perhaps I could help you out sometime,” he suggested. “A little private tuition can go a long way. You could come around some evening when Mother is at bingo and—”
“No, thank you,” I said, taking a mouthful of steak and hoping that he would turn his attentions elsewhere.
“And you own a tea shop, Mrs. Hennessy?” roared Maude unexpectedly, and Masterson put a hand to his chest in fright as if he was about to have a heart attack. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Not quite,” she replied. “I’m manageress of the tearoom in Dáil Éireann.”
“How interesting. Have you been there a long time?”
“Since 1922, when the Oireachtas held their first meeting in Leinster House.”
“Fascinating,” said Charles, and, in fairness to him, he did sound rather interested. “So you were present for the foundation of the state?”
“I was, yes.”
“That must have been some day.”
“It was,” agreed Mrs. Hennessy, her voice softening a little now. “It was very exciting. I’ll never forget how happy we all were. And Mr. Cosgrave, of course, was cheered by all sides of the House when he stood up to make his first speech as President of the Executive Council.”
“Christ alive, that’s thirty years ago,” said Turpin, shaking his head. “How old are you anyway? You must be getting on a bit, are you?”
“I’m sixty-four, Mr. Turpin,” she replied sweetly. “Thank you for asking.”
“I would have guessed somewhere around that,” he said, nodding. “You have that look that a lot of women your age get. All jowly, do you know what I mean? With dark bags under your eyes. And as for the veins on your legs, you must have got them from standing in the tearoom all day long. No offense meant, of course.”
“How could I possibly be offended by such a gallant speech?” she asked with a smile.
“An intriguing place to work all the same, wouldn’t you say?” said Charles. “All those important men going to and fro every day. You must hear a lot of secrets there, am I right?”
“If I did, Mr. Avery, do you think I’d let any of them escape my lips? I haven’t kept my position for three decades by being indiscreet.”
“But you’re to retire soon, or so I heard,” he continued. “And please, no more Mr. Avery. I’ve told you, it’s Charles.”
“I am indeed planning on retiring toward the end of the year,” she admitted, narrowing her eyes. “Do you mind if I ask how you knew that?”
“Well now, I haven’t built this house by being indiscreet either,” he said, winking at her. “Let’s just say that a little bird told me. How’s the pension fund anyway? I hope you’ve been careful. You could have a good many years ahead of you yet and you’ll want to be well looked after.”
“I believe I’ve been prudent,” she said coldly.
“I’m glad to hear it. Money matters when one is getting older. You never know when you might fall ill. You hear some terrible things about what happens in hospitals. If you ever need advice, feel free to ask me.”
“I think we’ll wait to see how the trial works out first, don’t you?” she said. “Before I consider coming to you for financial advice.”
“Do you want to be a banker too, Cyril?” asked Masterson. “Like your daddy there?”
I looked toward Charles, waiting for him to point out that I was not a real Avery, just an adopted son, but he said nothing, simply picked at his food and threw me a look that said You can answer.
“I don’t think so,” I said, staring at my plate and pulling my foot away when I felt Wilbert’s shoe touching mine beneath the table. “I haven’t really thought about it. I’m only seven.”
“A wonderful age,” said Wilbert. “My favorite of all the ages between six and ten.”
“He’s a fine-looking lad all the same,” said Turpin, turning to Maude. “He’s the image of yourself.”
“He looks nothing like me,” said Maude, which was reasonable enough.
“Ah he does now,” insisted Turpin. “You can see it around his eyes. And in his nose. He’s his mammy’s son.”
“You’re a very perceptive man, Mr. Turpin,” she replied, lighting another cigarette as the ashtray next to her began to spill over onto the linen. “The justice system will certainly benefit from your being on the jury.”
“I’m not sure if you’re aware of it,” said Charles, “but my dear wife here is one of Ireland’s foremost lady novelists.”
“Oh, Charles, please don’t,” she said, waving her hand in the air to shush him but only succeeding in sending more smoke down the table, causing Mrs. Hennessy to turn her face away and clear her throat.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but I must tell our guests. I’m so proud of Maude, you see. How many novels have you written now, darling?”
A long pause. I started to count the seconds in my head and I reached twenty-two before she spoke again.
“Six,” she said finally, “and I’m working on my seventh.”
“Isn’t that great all the same?” said
Turpin. “It’s great to have a hobby. My wife knits.”
“Mine plays the accordion,” said Masterson. “An awful bloody racket. My first wife, though, could ride a horse like Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet. She was the spit of her too, everybody said so.”
“You’ll be on the tea towel one of these days,” said Turpin.
“The tea towel?” asked Maude, frowning.
“You know, the one that all the tourists buy,” he explained. “With the pictures of the Irish writers on them.”
“That will never happen,” said Maude. “They don’t put women on that. Only men. Although they do let us use it to dry the dishes.”
“Who was that lady novelist who pretended she was a man?” asked Turpin.
“George Eliot,” said Wilbert, taking off his glasses and wiping them with his handkerchief.
“No, he was a man,” said Masterson. “But there was one who was really a woman but said she was a man.”
“Yes, George Eliot,” he repeated.
“Whoever heard of a girl called George?”
“George Eliot was her pseudonym,” said Wilbert patiently, as if he was speaking to a backward but attractive boy in his schoolroom.
“Then what was her real name?”
Wilbert opened his mouth but no words emerged.
“Mary Ann Evans,” said Mrs. Hennessy before things could get too embarrassing. “Actually, I’ve read one of your novels, Mrs. Avery,” she added. “By pure chance. Nothing connected with your husband’s trial. One of the girls at the tearoom gave it to me as a birthday present last year.”
“Oh dear,” replied Maude, looking like she might be ill. “I hope you didn’t read it.”
“Of course I did. What else would I do with it, use it as a coaster? I thought it was very beautifully written.”
“Which one was it?”
“The Quality of the Light.”
Maude pulled a disgusted face and shook her head dismissively. “I should have burned the manuscript of that one,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote it.”
