by Michael Barry

Created on: March 13, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

THE CLUB

It was daunting even for a self-confident young man, entering the hallowed portals of the Conservative Club. This was not simply because he was not a member, but rather more importantly because he was well aware that his own politics were of a significantly different hue.

He was directed to the Smoking Room and as he entered this inner sanctum, he found a number of members already entrenched. He had been here before of course, but nevertheless - it was still daunting! The sight of all those venerable figures, many still powerful, could not be described as less than daunting. Some sat in deep shiny leather armchairs, deep themselves in journals or dailies. A scattering of table lamps with their characteristic green shades and brass pedestals illuminated the weighty opinions that were being systematically digested by all. Rumination was in the very air, that little of it anyway that was not already occupied by tobacco smoke.

A waiter sidled silently through the green baize door, bearing yet another silver tray with teapot, cup, milk, sugar and plate of biscuits (though it was not unknown for a more audacious element of the membership to call on occasion for hot muffins). A member stirred expectantly, preparing himself to accept the delivery.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the net curtains and highlighted the rack of professional journals that awaited their turn to be dissected, chewed over or digested (monthly digests in particular preferred this latter). Some of these were newly hung that day, only just served up for the very first time. A pall of smoke lingered near the ceiling, obscuring cornices in distant corners.

He saw the Professor in his accustomed place and made his way over to him. The Professor lowered his Monthly Digest of Irish Parliamentary Affairs and looked at him over the rim of his spectacles, staring at him enigmatically, perhaps making up his mind whether to pursue a dialogue or not.

"May I?" enquired the young man. The Professor tilted his head two inches to the side and the younger man took this to constitute an invitation to sit in the vacant chair beside the Professor.

They sat for a while in silence, the unasked question, whatever it may have been, hanging in the air - slightly below the pall of cigar and pipe tobacco smoke. The Professor placed the Digest face-up in his lap, took up his box of matches and concentrated intently on relighting his aged pipe, a process which billowed fresh clouds into the firmament above.

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