said Israel, mesmerised by this manifestation of pure, adulterated charisma in their midst.
‘Sit up straight for goodness’ sake,’ said Minnie. ‘You make the place look untidy. He’ll be over in a minute.’
Minnie leaned across and pulled Israel’s T-shirt collar straight.
‘There,’ she said, ‘that’s better.’
‘I’m not a child,’ said Israel.
‘Well…’ said Ted. ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly. The mental age of a—’
‘It’s my birthday next week, actually,’ said Israel.
‘Ah. Really?’ said Minnie. ‘How old are ye going to be, pet?’
‘About a hundred and twenty?’ said Ted.
‘Sssh,’ said Minnie. ‘I asked him, not you. Do you know how old he is?’
‘Not a clue,’ said Ted. ‘But I could guess. What do you reckon?’
‘Well…’ Minnie looked Israel up and down: the mess of hair, the scrap of beard, the sullen cheeks, the gold-rimmed spectacles pushed up on to his forehead, the broken-down brogues, the baggy corduroy trousers, the ‘Triple H’ World Wrestling Entertainment T-shirt, featuring a grimacing, sweaty-looking man with long hair in black underpants, one of Brownie’s. ‘Difficult to say,’ she concluded, diplomatically. ‘What do you think?’
‘Hello?’ said Israel, trying to break into the conversation, unsuccessfully.
‘He carries on like a wee cappy and he blethers on like a grumphie old man,’ said Ted. ‘I’d place him around fifty.’
‘Fifty! I’m not fifty!’ said Israel. ‘Fifty! Do I look fifty?!’
‘Early fifties?’ said Ted.
‘It’s the beard, maybe,’ said Minnie.
‘Fifty! I’m nowhere near fifty! I’m going to be thirty!’
‘Thirty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh,’ said Minnie.
‘Middle age,’ said Ted. ‘Make anybody depressed.’
‘It’s not middle age,’ said Israel. ‘And I am not depressed.’
‘Might be older than middle age,’ said Ted.
‘Depends when ye’re going to die,’ said Minnie.
‘Right,’ said Israel.
‘No man knoweth the hour,’ said Minnie.
‘Right,’ said Israel.
‘Never mind,’ said Ted.
‘Never mind what?’ said Israel.
‘Thirty. Bad age.’
‘It’s not a bad age. I have no problem with reaching thirty. That’s the least of my problems.’
‘Good,’ said Ted.
‘I’ll leave you boys to it, then,’ said Minnie. ‘Enjoy your coffee. And happy birthday for next week.’
‘Thanks,’ said Israel.
‘Thirty,’ said Ted, shaking his head.
Israel had no problem with thirty, actually. Thirty is not that old. When you think about it. At thirty, really, you’re still on the cusp of your twenties. At thirty you’re an honorary twentysomething—that’s a good way of looking at it. It’s like you’re the top of your year at school. You’re a September baby. At thirty you might still conceivably be a late developer. You have a whole lifetime still ahead of you. At thirty the world remains your proverbial oyster…
‘Buddy Holly,’ said Ted, slathering his scone with butter.
‘What about Buddy Holly?’ said Israel.
‘He died young,’ said Ted.
‘Right. And your point is?’
‘I’m just saying, like. He was, what, twenty-one, twenty-two?’
‘Right.’
‘And the other fella.’
‘Which other fella?’
‘The actor fella. The leather jacket and the T-shirt.’
‘Marlon Brando?’
‘Ach, no, the other one.’
‘James Dean?’
‘Aye, that’s yer man. How old was he when he died?’
‘I have no idea, Ted,’ said Israel.
‘Twenty-five? Twenty-six?’
‘And?’ said Israel.
‘You’re a young man no more at thirty,’ said Ted, taking a huge bite of scone, as if the scone itself might bite him back if he didn’t get at it quick enough.
‘Yes you are,’ said Israel. ‘Of course you are.’
‘You’re not in your twenties in your thirties,’ said Ted, chewing, his mouth wide open.
‘Yes, right, that’s very true, Ted. Brilliant. Thank you for pointing that out. You’re not in your twenties in your thirties. You did maths in school, then?’
‘Big difference, twenties and thirties,’ said Ted, ignoring Israel, swallowing. ‘Big, big difference.’
‘No it’s not.’
‘I’m telling ye. Yer movers and shakers, they’ve all done their moving and shaking by thirty, haven’t they?’
‘Well, some of them have, but—’
‘Maurice Morris here.’ Ted nodded towards the pinstriped figure of Maurice moving among them. ‘Look what he’d achieved by the time he was thirty.’
‘I have no idea what he’d achieved, actually. But I’m sure—’
‘Well, what about yer Romantical poets, then? What about them?’
‘Who?’
‘All done in, weren’t they, by thirty?’
‘Who?’
‘Kates, and—’ Ted attacked the scone again.
‘Keats?’
‘Aye.
