A White Arrest

‘What a place. I can feel the rats in the wall.’ Phantom Lady

The Galtimore ballroom confirms the English nightmare. That the Irish are: One, tribal. Two, ferocious. Three, stone mad.

To see a heaving mass of hibernians ‘dancing’ to a show-band with an abandon of insecurity, is truly awesome. Like a rave with intent. When Falls saw the entrance and felt the vibes, she asked: ‘Are we here to dance or to raid?’

Eddie took her hand, laughed: ‘They’re only warming up.’

She could only hope this was a joke.

It wasn’t. Two bouncers at the door said in unison: ‘How ya, Eddie.’

Falls didn’t know: was this good or bad? Good that he was known, but how regular was he? Was she just another in a line of Saturday Night Specials, cheap and over the counter?

Eddie said: ‘They’re Connemara men. Never mess with them. When penance is required, they think true suffering is to drink sherry.’

Inside it was sweltering, and seemed like all of humanity had converged. Eddie said: ‘Wait here, I’ll get some minerals,’ and was gone.

Falls panicked, felt she’d never see him again. The sheer mass of the crowd moved her along and into the ballroom. She thought: ‘So this is hell.’

A stout man, reeking of stout in a sweat stained shirt asked her: ‘D’yer want a turn?’

‘No thank you, I’m — ’ but he shouted: ‘Stick it, yer black bitch!’

A band, consisting of at least fifty or so it seemed, were doing a loud version of ‘I Shot the Sheriff. Mainly it was loud, and they sure hated the sheriff. And here was Eddie, big smile, two large iced drinks, saying: ‘So, did you miss me?’

‘Yeah.’

Then they were dancing, despite the crowd, the heat and the band. They were cookin’. He could jive like an eel. Falls had never met a man who could dance. In fact most of them could barely speak. It deeply delighted her. Then a slow number: ‘Miss You Nights’.

And she drew him close, enfolded him tight. She asked: ‘Is that a poem or are you real pleased with me?’

‘It’s poetry all right.’

And later, it would be.