Wild Decembers by Edna O’Brien Page A

erudite, those on their teams merely sitting there to lend moral support. Every chair, every stool was taken, and latecomers including Bugler had to be content to stand in the hall.
    Joseph was in his best suit and white shirt, with Miss Carruthers, the Crock, and Eily, the new bank clerk, beside him. The side of his cheek next to the fire was scalding, and he drank tumblers of water. His opponent, Alfie, had taken off his jacket and sat in his shirtsleeves, studious, ponderous, like a young cleric discussing some article of theology with his own group.
    “I went wrong over the emeralds,” Joseph said, embarrassed. The question had been which country exported the most, and mistakenly he had said Peru.
    “I tried telepathy,” Miss Carruthers said, her voice high, hysterical, and scolding. Despite the heat, she wore her fox-fur collar, and the little buttony amber eyes seemed to glare across at Alfie and the burly man with him, whispering in his ear. They were unpopular because they always came first in quizzes and at the debating societies. Always when they won they looked very smug and shook hands with each other several times, proud of how knowledgeable they were.
    “It’s neck and neck.”
    “Keep the cool.”
    “Deep breaths,” Eily said. She liked Joseph; she knew that he had come to the bank one morning to ask for a loan and had seen the bank manager privately.
    “I’ll be all right if the questions are classic or mythological.”
    “You’ll be all right . . . period.”
    They might have been in an examination room with the locked boxes being opened, so solemn did it all become. Dunny stood in front of the bar, arms folded, while Derek shouted for quiet—lads, ladies, lads.
    What is the biggest-selling brand of spirits in the U.S.A.?
    Joseph looked from one to the other of his group, every least muscle in his face tightened as he searched for an answer. Himself and his opponent caught each other’s eye and looked away.
    Give the name and age of the newest star in the firmament.
    When the last question was given, the crowd sat back, relieved, as if they had weathered some great hazard, and the two pieces of folded paper were handed over to Dunny, who withdrew to do his sums. Drinks were called for, with Derek trying to appear impartial and serving everyone in their right turn.
    When Dunny returned waving the sheets of paper in either hand, it was thought that the result must be a draw. He valued this moment, basked in his importance, thinking of the homework he had done, week after week endeavouring to find questions that had not been asked before. He looked from one contender to the other. The celebrants now were restless, what with the room very warm, the glaring neon strips, and his scouting the faces, daring them to guess. Then, opening the home-made calendar in which he printed all the scores, he shouted out in a formal voice, “Table 4 scores 10.94. Table 5 scores 9.72.” There was clapping and cheering, people rushing across to hug Joseph, to share in his victory, drinks being sloshed from overfull tumblers, and suddenly the burly man getting himself up onto a tiny round table, calling “Objection . . . Objection.” The result, he assured them, was null and void due to a foul in the rules.
    “Name it,” Dunny said, piqued.
    “The last question contained two questions in one . . . That’s an irregularity.”
    “I make the rules . . . And I break the rules,” Dunny said, triumphant.
    “We want a recount.”
    “You can have it . . . He got both right and you only got one.
    He got Bacardi as the most popular drink and Protostar as the name of the new arrival.”
    “Jesus . . . Was it Bacardi?” Eily said, and lolled back, asking Derek to kindly bring her a Bacardi and Coke so that she could celebrate.
    “I chanced my arm on the Bacardi,” Joseph said.
    “Don’t be a crybaby,” Dunny said as the burly man refused to come down off the table. There were shouts and boos then,