Dowling Dinner Dialogue

or

A day in the life

Note:  Names have been changed and some 'poetic licence' used

So a couple of days ago, I was pottering around the house when I received the summons.  Now, for some reason the landline has been acting up over the last few months and for some other, more obvious, reasons i.e. laziness, I haven't got on to Eircom about it, so it was the mobile which emitted a muffled ring.  Accordingly, I extricated it from beneath the couch cushions and swiped the screen to answer it.  "Hello, hello?  Can you hear me?  Hang on a sec!"  I limp outside into the Autumnal wind and lounge in a spot I know my telephone will have reception.  It's the mother and my presence is requested for dinner.  "Grand, grand.  Do you want to head out somewhere?"  No, she's had a long week, we'll get a take-away.

A few hours later, I'm ensconced in my parents' sitting-room, balancing a chinese precariously on my knees and attempting to eat it, without getting sauce all over my clothes, with the Good Newbridge Silverware.  My parents are on the couch and my niece is perched on the arm of the armchair, Eric the cat having earlier claimed his territory.   Presently, my sister arrives in good time for cake and coffee.

My father is a well-read man and can often be found absorbed in some weighty biographical tome but this evening he's revelling in Roddy Doyle's latest - Two Pints.  It's the first book, he reliably informs us, that was published first in Facebook before appearining in print form.  So, our catching-up gossip, where I ask the niece how university life is treating her and how she can survive campus life without a bar, is frequently punctuated by small fits of giggles from himself.  "Very good, very good", he grins.

Every now and then, all else halts as he regales us with a passage.  "So there's these two lads, right?  And they're having a couple of pints down the pub, ok?"  "Ok, fire ahead", says I.

- Have yeh made your mind up yet?
- A pint - same as always.  I haven't had to make me mind up since -
- I meant the election
- Ah, shove it
- Well it's either tha' or the Greek default
- Alrigh' - fuck it. Who's goin' to win?
- Hard to say.  They're all shite!

We chuckle in the appropriate places and return to our meandering gossip.  Our niece, being a good fresher politics student has been on a protest in the Dáil over the student cuts.  Fair play to her, every student should go on at least one protest march or sit-in.  I tell her about the times I went on marches about the cuts to the students dole.  Thousands spent on educating us (you had to pay university fees then) and the best we could up with as a slogan was "Woodsie is a wanker!"  Ah, they were the days!

The conversation steers somehow towards my primary school teachers.  "Are they not all dead yet?", I venture mischievously (they're of an age with my parents).  "No, only two of them.  Mrs. Doyle and Sr. Mary".  "Ah, right. Actually, now I come to think of it, I met Mrs Smith in Dundrum last year.  In the toy shop.  So, Sr. Mary's dead is she?  She once gave me an awful thump on the back, near winded me!"  "She could be violent, alright", replies the mother, "but she was from a very wealthy family". 

I try to remember the nuns at the school.  There weren't many of them.  I name three and then "Oh, Lesbian Lou! I nearly forgot about her.  She did the basketball!  Was she in your school when you were there?", I ask my sister.  "I don't think she was a lesbian", my mother interrupts.  "We all thought she was".  "But she came from a good family.  Her father was a banker."  "Doesn't mean she wasn't a lesbian." "I suppose".  At this point my sister interjects (the niece is now engrossed in texting her mates).  "Dad, I don't know why you're reading that book.  Just listen to the conversation here!"

We talk about our plans for the evening.  My niece is meeting her friends down the local.  "I'm going to Carlow", I say.  "Carlow?" "Yeah, there's a party on, a 40th".  I'm going to a lot of those these days.  Another giggle from the father.  "Do you know what going to Carlow meant when I was young?", he says.  "Probably the same as what going to Dundrum meant when I was young!", I counter.  Smiles all around.  "Probably!"  "And Portlaoise", says the mother.  "Some people were sent to Portlaoise instead".

"There were a lot of people sent to Carlow in those days", says the father.  My mother: "I remember a girl I knew went to Carlow".  "What happened to her?", I ask.  "She kept running away, they kept sending her back."  "Do you remember Seán Dedalus from down The Commons?", my father asks her.  "He went to Carlow".  "Was he related to yer man Dedalus down the road from you?", I ask.  "No, different family".  "It's an unusual name", says I.  "Doesn't matter, they still weren't related".  "No, they were a different social class altogether", says my mother.  "That wouldn't mean they weren't related", I persist.  "Well, they weren't". "Ok".

There's a short lull.  "So, what happened to yer man Seán then, that went to Carlow?", I ask.  "They let him out.  He came back and killed his brother", my father informs us.  "It was always going to happen", says my mother.  "Wha'?": the father.  "Mrs Lynch used to visit with that family and they always told her if he got out, he'd kill one of them."  "But she would have been dead when he murdered him!", my father says.  "Well, she knew it years beforehand and she was right".  Another pause, then my mother comes up with this nugget "There was another Dedalus nearby, in Kilcullen.  Not related either.  He was a butcher".  "You sure they weren't related?"  We all laugh.

The evening continues with more inconsequental trivia being pitched back and forth until "Come on", I say to the niece.  "I'll drop you to the pub on my way".  I leave her at the pub.  Not at the door.  Oh no, her mates are drinking cans in the car park.  I head on.  It's been a good evening.  Pity I missed last weekend when the brother and the sister-in-law were there as well.