“I can’t see Harold Wilson or Callaghan or any of them over there doing anything,” said Margie. “And what sort of a name is that anyway? Captain O’Neill? Did you ever hear of a prime minister being called captain? What is he the captain of? A cricket team? I remember reading one time he went to Eton. Cricket’s what they play there isn’t it?”
“He’s the captain of a sinking ship,” shouted Willie Henry. A clear case of withdrawal symptoms. Which I also was suffering from but at least I had the wit to keep quiet.
“This place is unreformable,” said Margie. “Do you see all this stuff about one man one vote and fair housing and all? The only way this place can be reformed is to hand it over lock stock and barrel to the Free State.”
Bill was footering impatiently with his waistcoat buttons and elaborate looking things they were too. “And what would the Free State as you call it do with the Orange Order and the Apprentice Boys and the million Protestants up in the North here that are afraid of Rome rule?”
Willie Henry came out fighting. “What do you mean Rome rule?” he demanded.
“Aye, what do you mean Rome rule?” said Margie. “That’s the kind of language Carson used. And Craig and Basil Brooke and the whole rogue’s galley of them.”
“Gallery,” I said impulsively.
“What?” shouted Willie Henry, picking distractedly at hardened phlegm from the inside corner of one eye and dislodging what looked to me like red clots.
“Gallery,” I repeated and then closed my eyes, sorry I’d spoken. The hard g at the start of the word had caused a sharp pain to shoot across my forehead twice in quick succession.
“Margie’s right,” said Seamus emphatically. “Rogue’s galley’s what they are. Because they’re all going to go down with the ship so they are.”