wouldn’t recognise your man Goertz if he walked by me.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Like who?’
‘Anyone from the German legation? Or the IRA?’
Gifford thought about that for a moment. ‘Interesting,’ he said, ‘that you lump them together. But no.’ He nodded across at the Red Bank. ‘They’re a bunch of fantasists. Spend their time debating which of them will be Gauleiter for Munster or Dublin when the Nazis take over. Even the local lads couldn’t be bothered with them. Never mind the Germans.’
‘So why are we all sitting here then?’
‘In case they’re right, of course,’ Gifford laughed. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
Duggan tossed his cigarette end out the window and looked at his watch. It was well after eleven o’clock.
‘Go up to the Gresham and thaw yourself out,’ Gifford opened his door. ‘I’ll let you know if anything happens here.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Trust me,’ Gifford gave him a lop-sided grin. ‘Happy New Year.’
Duggan dumped his coat with a bored woman in the cloakroom and headed for the toilets. The Alex Caulfield band was playing a foxtrot, the music spilling out of the ballroom with the heat. Bill Sullivan pulled open the door of the gents as he was about to push it in.
‘Hah,’ Sullivan laughed. ‘You’re in the shithouse already.’
‘Didn’t you tell her I was going to be late?’
‘But not nearly three hours late.’
‘Fuck’s sake, I told you I might be.’
‘I hope it was worth it,’ Sullivan pushed him out of the doorway to let someone else enter.
‘What?’
‘Whatever it was you were doing.’
‘Where are we sitting?’
‘Round to the right. At the back.’
Duggan stopped inside the ballroom and lit a cigarette, trying to identify their table. The dance floor was crowded, couples circling the room in a steady stream round the fulcrum of the revolving crystal ball, which sprayed out splashes of coloured light. A couple of the tables at the back right were empty, drinks standing like lonely sentinels, ashtrays full, but he couldn’t figure out which was theirs. He turned to the bar and joined the queue and asked for a Paddy.
‘Just the one?’ the barman shouted at him.
Duggan nodded and leaned into the counter to pour water into the whiskey. He turned back to the dance floor and Sullivan and his girlfriend Carmel swept past. Sullivan indicated behind him with his thumb and gave him a broad wink. His would-be companion, Breda, was dancing with a tall man with blonde hair, moving fluidly and having an animated conversation. Carmel wiggled her fingers at him and gave him a sympathetic look over Sullivan’s shoulder.
The music ended and couples drifted back to their tables. Duggan followed Sullivan and Carmel to a table in the corner and she greeted him with a peck on the cheek.
‘Sorry I’m so late,’ he said.
‘You missed the dinner,’ she said, looking around for Breda. A couple of their colleagues and their partners arrived at the table and greeted him.
‘She’s over there,’ Sullivan pointed to the bar where Breda and the man she’d been dancing with were continuing their animated conversation. ‘Go and get her.’
‘She seems happy enough,’ Duggan replied. ‘It was only a matter of convenience, wasn’t it?’
Carmel gave Sullivan a slit-eyed look that put him on notice of trouble later. Duggan smiled to himself, sipped his whiskey and relaxed into the warmth.
The band leader began the countdown to the new year and there was a ragged cheer, mainly from those who were already drunk, as 1941 was announced. The band broke into ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and they all stood and joined hands and wished each other a happy New Year, the unspoken fears of what it would bring making the atmosphere of enforced gaiety brittle.
Duggan had a couple more whiskies and danced with all his colleagues’ wives and girlfriends, but Breda never came back to their table.
‘You know who she’s with?’ one of his work
‘Anyone else?’
‘Like who?’
‘Anyone from the German legation? Or the IRA?’
Gifford thought about that for a moment. ‘Interesting,’ he said, ‘that you lump them together. But no.’ He nodded across at the Red Bank. ‘They’re a bunch of fantasists. Spend their time debating which of them will be Gauleiter for Munster or Dublin when the Nazis take over. Even the local lads couldn’t be bothered with them. Never mind the Germans.’
‘So why are we all sitting here then?’
‘In case they’re right, of course,’ Gifford laughed. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
Duggan tossed his cigarette end out the window and looked at his watch. It was well after eleven o’clock.
‘Go up to the Gresham and thaw yourself out,’ Gifford opened his door. ‘I’ll let you know if anything happens here.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Trust me,’ Gifford gave him a lop-sided grin. ‘Happy New Year.’
Duggan dumped his coat with a bored woman in the cloakroom and headed for the toilets. The Alex Caulfield band was playing a foxtrot, the music spilling out of the ballroom with the heat. Bill Sullivan pulled open the door of the gents as he was about to push it in.
‘Hah,’ Sullivan laughed. ‘You’re in the shithouse already.’
‘Didn’t you tell her I was going to be late?’
‘But not nearly three hours late.’
‘Fuck’s sake, I told you I might be.’
‘I hope it was worth it,’ Sullivan pushed him out of the doorway to let someone else enter.
‘What?’
‘Whatever it was you were doing.’
‘Where are we sitting?’
‘Round to the right. At the back.’
Duggan stopped inside the ballroom and lit a cigarette, trying to identify their table. The dance floor was crowded, couples circling the room in a steady stream round the fulcrum of the revolving crystal ball, which sprayed out splashes of coloured light. A couple of the tables at the back right were empty, drinks standing like lonely sentinels, ashtrays full, but he couldn’t figure out which was theirs. He turned to the bar and joined the queue and asked for a Paddy.
‘Just the one?’ the barman shouted at him.
Duggan nodded and leaned into the counter to pour water into the whiskey. He turned back to the dance floor and Sullivan and his girlfriend Carmel swept past. Sullivan indicated behind him with his thumb and gave him a broad wink. His would-be companion, Breda, was dancing with a tall man with blonde hair, moving fluidly and having an animated conversation. Carmel wiggled her fingers at him and gave him a sympathetic look over Sullivan’s shoulder.
The music ended and couples drifted back to their tables. Duggan followed Sullivan and Carmel to a table in the corner and she greeted him with a peck on the cheek.
‘Sorry I’m so late,’ he said.
‘You missed the dinner,’ she said, looking around for Breda. A couple of their colleagues and their partners arrived at the table and greeted him.
‘She’s over there,’ Sullivan pointed to the bar where Breda and the man she’d been dancing with were continuing their animated conversation. ‘Go and get her.’
‘She seems happy enough,’ Duggan replied. ‘It was only a matter of convenience, wasn’t it?’
Carmel gave Sullivan a slit-eyed look that put him on notice of trouble later. Duggan smiled to himself, sipped his whiskey and relaxed into the warmth.
The band leader began the countdown to the new year and there was a ragged cheer, mainly from those who were already drunk, as 1941 was announced. The band broke into ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and they all stood and joined hands and wished each other a happy New Year, the unspoken fears of what it would bring making the atmosphere of enforced gaiety brittle.
Duggan had a couple more whiskies and danced with all his colleagues’ wives and girlfriends, but Breda never came back to their table.
‘You know who she’s with?’ one of his work
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