are,’ said Minnie. ‘And I’ll make sure Maurice comes and has a quick word with you.’
‘I heard he’d had a cafetière fitted,’ said Ted.
‘A cafetière?’ said Israel.
‘Aye.’
‘A cafetière is what you make the coffee in,’ said Minnie.
‘Not a cafetière, then,’ said Ted. ‘Something like that.’
‘A catheter?’ said Israel.
‘Well, I don’t want you asking him about that,’ said Minnie.
‘I don’t want to meet him anyway,’ said Israel. ‘Thanks.’
‘The man running to be your own elected representative?’ said Minnie.
‘Sure, you probably vote for the Shinners,’ said Ted.
‘The whatters?’ said Israel.
‘Now!’ said Minnie. ‘We’re one big happy rainbow nation these days, Ted.’
‘Does he have any actual policies, Maurice Morris?’ asked Israel.
‘Aye,’ said Ted. ‘The same as the rest of them. Snouts in the trough and selling the rest of us down the river. I tell ye, I’ve some questions for Mister Morris if he comes over.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Minnie, beginning to walk away. ‘Healthy democracy and all that—just you make sure you go easy on him, Ted. I don’t want any trouble. Nothing personal. I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Nothing personal!’ said Ted. ‘Adulterating so and so.’
‘Ex-adulterer,’ said Minnie, as a parting shot.
‘Ex-adulterer?’ said Israel.
‘A leopard doesn’t change its spots,’ said Ted.
Israel watched, fascinated, as Maurice slowly worked his ex-adulterating way from wipe-down gingham tableclothed table to wipe-down gingham tableclothed table, firmly shaking hands with the men, and hugging the ladies, and kissing the babies—grandchildren, mostly—and grinning and winking with utter conviction, as though there were no other place on earth that he’d rather be right now, a-grinning and a-winking, than right here, in Zelda’s Café. In his years out of office Maurice had read a lot of books about communication, and persuasion, and entrepreneurial self-realisation and reinvention, and during his time in the wilderness he’d learnt that in life generally and in politics in particular, no matter how you felt or what your circumstances, you needed to appear always as though this really mattered—this coffee morning, this photo-shoot, this meeting, this community liaison event. Even if it didn’t. Which it didn’t. Maurice had become, even more than he was previously, an of the and in the moment kind of a guy. When Maurice Morris went out campaigning around Tumdrum and District he put all thoughts of himself, of his many personal successes and achievements, from his mind and focused instead on the little people and their problems and difficulties, and the amazing thing was, it worked. They flocked to him, the people, because he, Maurice Morris, was in the moment. He was the moment: he had presence, you couldn’t deny it, and right now, at this moment, middle-aged and elderly women who should have known better were in the moment with him, giggling and photographing each other, posing cheek-to-cheek with him, using the cameras on their mobile phones, many of them for the first time, delighted that they’d upgraded, as their daughters and the suited salespeople in the Carphone Warehouse in the Fountain Centre at Rathkeltair had wisely suggested. There were mega-pixel flashes, and much automatic red-eye reduction, and laughter, and good-natured banter and repartee, and even though it was Zelda’s, and even though it was a Friday morning in September, and even though it was softly raining outside, it felt like a glittering gala event. Maurice Morris was about as glamorous as it got on the North Antrim coast. Short of George Clooney himself turning up in Zelda’s, as part of some promotional tour for a new film about the Giant’s Causeway—Atlantic Ocean’s Eleven?—Maurice Morris was it.
‘Come on now, fellas, sit up straight,’ said Minnie, returning with coffee and scones.
‘What?’ 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