Ahoy for Joy (17 page)

They arrived at Belfast International airport early on the Friday evening. Although it was late June, the sky was overcast and a cool wind was blowing. A light drizzle filled the air. They took a taxi for the city centre and sat relaxing in the back seat as the driver sped through the Irish countryside, the car lifting and falling joyously on the little undulations on the road. After a while they stopped at a junction. There was a small house situated on the corner, a simple bungalow with a little window in the roof. Beside it was a makeshift sign at the side of the road. It read;
If you lived here, you'd be home by now.

Cees read it with a little confusion as he peered through the spot he had cleaned on the steamed up window. “Here Anna,” he said at last pointing. “Your English is better than mine. What does that sign mean?” She leaned over and looked out, reading it quickly before settling back in her seat. She glimmered a smile. Cees looked on expectantly. “It means if you lived here, you'd be home by now,” she said nonchalantly in Dutch.

Cees looked perplexed, opened his mouth to speak but reconsidered and went back to his own thoughts.

After a while the roads became larger and the landscape more urban with houses and larger buildings dominating the skyline as the green of the countryside first engaged, then gave way to city streets. Belfast wasn't quite what they had been expecting. The only images either of the two foreigners had already imprinted on their minds were from the 1970s and 80s when political strife tore through the city and pictures of the results were broadcast around the world. Now, the place seemed rather well developed, affluent even. German cars sped past on the wide roads and as they approached the centre, they could see large developments of apartment blocks and entertainment complexes befitting of any modern West European city.

The streets were busy and the traffic slowed as the pavements filled with throngs of citizens as those late in leaving work mixed with others heading out for a Friday evening on the town. Anna observed them carefully, contemplating which ones might be Catholic and which ones Protestant and wondering how one could ever tell the difference. She pondered how whatever differences there were could ever have descended into the violence that had claimed so many lives, including the life of her first love.

Eventually they arrived at the hotel. It was a large, modern and rather luxurious establishment which towered some twelve floors into the sky. Outside there were a good number of prestigious cars picking up and dropping people off at the hotel as well as the theatre next door.

They checked in and were shown to a large, well decorated room on the sixth floor.

“Bit flash isn't it” remarked Anna as she laid her suitcase on the stand that sat below the window at one end of the room.

“Well, yes. I think this is one of the best hotels in the city,” replied Cees, smiling broadly. “I thought why not make a thing of it. We get away, just the two of us, nowhere near often enough.”

“City seems nice,” added Anna. “Not sure what I was expecting, but I suppose I thought it would be, well certainly less busy. Maybe a little run down still, but it really is quite vibrant. I guess this is the peace dividend.”

“Yes, that and the Celtic Tiger.”

“Celtic what?”

“The Irish economy is the fastest growing economy in Europe at the minute. They call it the Celtic Tiger.”

“Yes, but that's surely the South. This is the North.”

“Yes, but it looks like the effect has spilled over to the North too.” Cees chuckled. “Maybe they have discovered making money and decided to put their efforts into getting rich instead of killing each other.”

Anna scowled, disapproving of his casual reference.

“Sorry,” said Cees, noting his impropriety. “The place does look affluent though.”

They had eaten at Schiphol Airport before they left and weren't that hungry, so after they had settled in, Cees suggested they go out for a drink to sample the local nightlife. Outside the sky was overcast and a cool wind was blowing. A light drizzle filled the air. Across the road was a pub and the welcoming atmosphere of the townsfolk drinking, talking and socialising spilled invitingly out onto the street in a noisy hubbub of activity.

They looked approvingly at each other and entered. It was an ornate, Victorian establishment with etched glass mirrors and dark, hardwood panels. The room was much larger than they would have been used to in Holland and the serving bar stretched the full length along one side with a marble top, smoothed to imperfection by the years of casual leanings of the townsfolk awaiting service. It smelled of beer, wine and whiskey, but it also smelled of history and nostalgia as if both were a permanent presence in the building. Animated couples and groups stood chatting enthusiastically with mannerisms buoyed by the satisfaction of a week's work now done and the prospect of a relaxing unwind with friends, colleagues and family. Some were dressed in smart business wear, while others were more casually attired. A few even wore rough work clothes, soiled with the marks of their respective trades.

The remainder of the room was taken up with cubicles or private snugs elaborately carved from mahogany panels that looked to have witnessed many a negotiation, plan, scheme, argument, triumph or other human experience since time immemorial. Boisterous laughter could be heard from some, while in others, groups talked in hushed tones of issues more private or personal in nature.

The two foreigners went up to the bar. “Better try the local brew then, Anna,” said Cees.

“That'll be the Guinness, I expect.”

Cees paused a moment and looked at her. “Is it one Guinness, but two Guinnesses, or is it one of those words where the singular is the same as the plural, you know like sheep?”

Before she had time to reply, a voice interjected. “It could be either,” he said, “but of course it could also be one Guinness, two Guinni or two Guinnessi, like from the Latin!” Anna laughed and gazed at the mirror above the bar.
Guinness is good for you
, it said.

The man appeared to be in his late seventies with thin back combed grey hair that yellowed at its tips and an unkempt, bushy moustache that looked like it had been dipped in rather too many pints of Guinness over the years. Anna recognised his accent as quintessentially English in nature, the tone of which defined his social class, as rather well to do, much more so than his regional origin.

“Well,” he went on, “there is a lot of Latin in the English language. Indirectly, of course, mostly from the French, following the Norman invasion, you know, 1066 and all that.”

“1690. What's that? 1690?” interjected his drinking partner, a tall, elderly man who spoke with the sharp musical tones of the authentic Belfast accent. He was waiflike thin and his body seemed to buckle under its own weight as he stood.

“Not 1690 Tom, 1066. The Norman invasion. You know, William the Conqueror.”

“William of Orange?”

“
No
Tom, not William of
Orange
, William the
Conqueror
. The battle of Hastings. 1066. He had everyone speaking French for years. For God's sake put your hearing aid in.”

In the meantime, the barman had arrived and Cees ordered two pints of the establishment's
best
Guinness, he emphasised, cleverly pluralising the word pint, thus making the plural ending of Guinness unnecessary.

“It's all standard,” said the barman dryly. “We don't have different grades of Guinness, but you can have extra cold if you like.”

Cees, looked at his new friend who shrugged, “I always stick with the original, sort of warmer one. The cold one hurts my teeth, the few I have left!”

“Just normal then,” said Cees.

“It's not that standard at all.”

Cees looked up.

“The Guinness in England is nowhere near as good as here. Something about the water they say. Irish Guinness is brewed from water from the river Liffey, which apparently gives it an extra quality unavailable anywhere else in the world. You can definitely tell the difference.”

The voice came from another man who had joined them at the bar, money in hand, trying to catch the tender's eye. He was young and casually dressed with short hair and glasses and spoke in a younger version of the Belfast accent, dodging his head from side to side in a rhythmical motion as he spoke.

“Also, it all depends on volume. You can't leave it in the keg too long. It doesn't keep. Sometimes in England it's been sitting around for a while. I never drink it unless others are.” He smiled at Anna, who was still pondering the Guinness advertising mirror.

“Of course, that couldn't really be,” she said casually. The Englishman raised his eyebrows. “Well,” Anna went on, “Latin plurals are really only found where the word ends in –us, like radius; radii or alumnus; alumni etc. Guinness ends in –ess, not –us, so whatever its origins, it wouldn't really take this type of ending”

“Ah, you're clearly a well-educated young woman,” replied the Englishman, a mild flattery in his voice.

“Well, yes.” Anna nodded shyly, “I studied English literature at university and the origins of the language particularly interest me. As well as being arguably the most widely spoken language in the world, English has openly welcomed new words into the vocabulary. This gives it a rich diversity which makes its literature so particularly fascinating. While its core origins are Germanic, as you mentioned, most words in the French language can also be found in some form in English. Usually the meanings are derived, but they are there all the same.”

The man watched her intently, shuffling his weight from one side of his body to the other before responding. “Do you mind if I ask where you studied?”

Anna chuckled openly. “Ah, well, I studied in Holland, at Utrecht actually.” She pronounced the city's name locally with a soft Oo-trecht, rather than Uu-trecht as it might be pronounced by an English speaker, providing the first indication that she may not hail from England's home counties. “We had a long established English department there,” she went on “and liaised with all the premier universities in the English speaking world.”

“Ah, so hence the knowledge of the vagaries of Latin.” The Englishman nodded approvingly as he nonchalantly tapped his walking sick on the tiled floor.

Finally the two pints of stout arrived on the counter, already settled with the dense black liquid topped with the familiar creamy lather. Anna's eyes widened, “I'm never going to drink all that,” she said looking at the large pint glass and taking a sip leaving a comical creamy moustache remaining on her upper lip, a fact noted by the company but not commented on.

The younger Irishman ordered a pint and stood waiting for its delivery. “You are English though?” he asked expectantly.

“Oh no, we're both Dutch. I've only ever been to England once for a short holiday.” Anna's face took on a pensive expression as her mind wandered briefly to the reason for their visit, “but the language has always been my passion.”

“Of course you will know,” chimed in the Englishman who had now rather deserted his hard of hearing friend, “the Irish have made amazing contributions to English literature. There's George Bernard Shaw. Yes and Oscar Wilde…”

“Gay!” said a voice. It was the Irish guy who had now turned to face the accumulating group.

“What does it matter if he was gay?” asked Cees, suddenly becoming defensive on behalf of Dutch liberal opinion.

“Well, it doesn't matter, it doesn't
matter
, I'm just saying he was gay, that's all.”

Cees thought better of pursuing the subject and the conversation skipped cheerfully on.

“Then there's James Joyce,” said the Englishman, clearly happy with the subject of the discussion. He paused thoughtfully. “Ah yes, Ulysses. The most famous book, nobody has ever read.”

“And the longest!” interjected the young Irishman who now had his pint in hand and had joined Anna in a creamy moustache though he seemed indisposed to lick it off, rather leaving it to dribble slowly into his mouth as he talked, periodically catching the drips with his tongue.

“Then there's C S Lewis. He was actually born in Belfast, you know. Also what do you call that kid the children are studying in school?”

The Englishman tapped his stick repeatedly on the floor as his mind sought out the answer on the tip of his tongue, more recent events having become rather more difficult to retrieve in his later years. However, before he spoke, Anna once again found herself contributing to the dialogue. “I've read it.” She paused briefly, then repeated for clarity, “Ulysses, I've read it.”

Once again, the company turned to face Anna's modest features. Happy with her audience, she went on. “It has been voted, admittedly in literary circles, as one of the best novels ever written in the English language. It's full of riddles and puns, so much so that even the most sophisticated scholar can only hope to decipher a minority of them. I thought I should read it.”

“And…” asked the Irish guy.

She smiled. “Actually, it's not that bad. You need to be content to not understand it all or even most of it and also to know that there is still more you don't know you don't understand, but it's irreverent, sort of fun too in places. It's made up of a series of short stories, linked, but also self-standing in their own right. You could do worse than read just one or two of the episodes and see what you think.”

The conversation was interrupted as the door of the bar swung enthusiastically open and about a dozen people marched in. They were mostly in their twenties or thirties and casually dressed, but smartly so in blue jeans and designer pullovers, some with satchels across their shoulders. They milled around, looking above and to each side surveying the establishment as they pushed through the regular Friday night drinkers.