04 Irish Mist by Andrew M Greeley

Author:Andrew M Greeley [Greeley, Andrew M]
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

—19—

“THE FOCKING bitch is right”. Herself waved the Irish Times at me. “I’m a focking hypocrite.”

“She didn’t say that,” I replied mildly,

knowing that my comment would do no good at all.

“And meself up there in front of the whole of Ireland acting like I was Rosin Dubh herself.”

She hurled the paper across the room.

“I thought you were just being Nuala Anne.”

“Fock Nuala focking Anne!” she shouted.

My woman, as is probably obvious, was in a vile mood, as vile a mood as I had observed since I had first met her in O’Neill’s pub.

She was curled up in a chair in our room, almost in a fetal position, huddling in a terry cloth robe. She wanted no part of the world and no part of me.

The Irish mists had returned, this time as dense fog. The swimming pool below was invisible. So were the lower floors of the hotel. The fog fit her dark mood.

No, she did not want to swim.

No, she did not want to run in the park with Fiona (who was waiting for us in the kennel in the bowels of the hotel, which was reserved for dogs prominent enough to stay at Jury’s).

No, she didn’t want to talk to me.

No, she didn’t want me to go down to the lobby and work on my report.

No, she didn’t want me to stay in the room with her.

No, she didn’t want any breakfast.

No, she didn’t want to take a shower.

No, she didn’t want anything.

Moreover, she wasn’t hungover. She had consumed only one pint of Guinness at the party. However, she had not even bothered to get into bed but had spent the whole night sulking in the chair like a little girl who had been grounded for a bad attitude. I had the good sense not to argue with her.

The reviews in the morning papers had been wonderful. There was no mention of either Father Placid or Sean MacCarthy but pictures of Nuala and Fiona kissing each other. Somehow I didn’t make it into the pictures. Good enough for me. A columnist in the Times had been a bit grudging:

Ms. McGrail has a pretty young voice which may eventually mature into something much better, though it obviously will never be quite as good as that of Ireland’s most beloved woman singer, Maeve Doyle. However, she is gorgeous and has more stage presence than all of the Riverdance troupe put together. She is, above all else, an actress, a skilled and instinctive performer who wins over even the most critical instantly. In a startling display of courage, she chose to re-create in an hour and a half the whole history of Celtic spirituality. Astonishingly, she almost carried it off. For those who admire the absolute purity of Ms. Doyle’s highly artistic performances, Ms. McGrail’s west of Ireland exuberance may well seem offensive, even a bit too American. However, within the obvious limitations of her talents, she is a compelling presence. We will hear more of her and from her in the future.

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