‘Curly Wurly?’ Chris suggested.

‘Didn’t I just say I’m not paying good money to eat holes.’

‘And the chocolate always falls off,’ Clarence added.

‘Double-Decker?’ Nancy said. Nancy was the fiftyish housewife who was addicted to tranquillizers, and this was the first time I’d ever heard her speak. Talk of chocolate had cut through to that twilight world she seemed to inhabit.

‘No.’

‘Fry’s Chocolate Creme?’ suggested Sadie the sadist, who happened to be present.

‘No.’

‘Toffee Crisp?’ From Barry the child. ‘No.’

‘But they’re lov…’

‘Minstrels!’ Mike offered.

‘Topic? A hazelnut in every bite?’ From Vincent.

‘Walnut WHIP?’ Don hooted. ‘Lose yourself in a Walnut Whip DREAM?’

‘Milky Way? ‘Peter.

‘Bounty?’ Stalin.

‘Caramel? ‘Misty.

‘Revellers.’ Fergus the acid casualty.

‘Revels.’ Clarence corrected him.

‘Fuck off.’ Fergus was annoyed.

‘A Picnic,’ Chaquie said.

‘A Lion Bar?’ Eamonn.

‘I think Picnics and Lion Bars are actually the same thing,’ Chaquie said.

‘No they’re not,’ fatso Eamonn insisted. ‘They’re quite different. The Lion Bar has peanuts in it but the Picnic has raisins. They’re superficially the same because they’re both wafer-based.’

‘All right,’ Chaquie conceded.

Eamonn smirked.

‘You’d know if anyone would,’ she added.

Eamonn tossed his head haughtily and his jowls wobbled like a bowl of jelly.

The suggestions continued to pour in. ‘A Fuse?’

‘A Galaxy?’

‘A Marathon?’

‘Wait!’ Eddie shouted. ‘Wait, back up a bit, a what?’

‘A Fuse?’ asked Eamonn.

‘Yes,’ Eddie declared, his face redder than ever with joy. ‘A Fuse. Are they new?’

Everyone looked at Eamonn. ‘Newish,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘They were introduced to the Irish market over a year ago and have sold consistently well, appealing to people who want relatively uncomplicated confectionery but without the traditional eight-square format. They’re an interesting blend – a fuse, if you will – of raisins, crispy cereal, fudge pieces and, of course…’ he delivered a winning smile around the table’… chocolate.’

Everyone nearly stood up and applauded.

‘He’s great, isn’t he?’ Don murmured. ‘Really knows his stuff.’

‘OK,’ said Eddie, sold. ‘I’ll have seven of them.’

‘So will I,’ Mike shouted.

‘Put me down for five,’ yelled Stalin.

‘Me too.’

‘Six.’

‘Eight.’

‘Three,’ I found myself saying, even though I hadn’t intended to order anything. Such was Eamonn’s oratorial power.

Then everyone ordered a hundred cigarettes each, a few tabloids, and off Don and Frederick went into the cold evening, down to the village.

After tea, as we loitered in the dining-room, Davy looked up from his paper and exclaimed. ‘Look! Look! Here’s a picture of Snorter out on the razz.’ There was a mad surge as everyone gathered round to look.

‘Looks like he’s back on the sauce,’ said Mike sadly.

‘He didn’t last long, did he?’ said Oliver.

They all shook their head despairingly and seemed very, very upset.

‘I thought he was going to be OK,’ murmured Barry.

‘He said he was really going to try this time,’ said Misty.

‘I suppose in his line of work – groupies, cocaine, Jack Daniels…’ Fergus said wistfully. ‘What can you expect?’

A pall had settled over the table.

‘Is this Snorter out of Killer?’ I asked cautiously. Killer was a crappy heavy-metal band, that, despite their crappiness, were very popular. Luke probably had all their records.

‘That’s the fella,’ said Mike.

‘How do you know him?’ I asked, nonchalantly. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself by jumping to any conclusions.

‘Because he was HERE!’ Don screeched, his goitrey eyes almost bursting from his head. ‘In here. With UZZ!’

‘Is that right?’ I murmured, my heart doing a little flutter of hope. ‘And what was he like?’

There was a chorus of approval for Snorter.

‘Lovely fella,’ said Mike.

‘Sound man,’ agreed Stalin.

‘Grand head of hair on him,’ said Clarence.

‘Awful tight trousers, the way you could see his goose-pimples,’ said John Joe.

‘Awful tight trousers, the way if he doesn’t watch himself he won’t father any children,’ roared Peter, then convulsed with laughter.

However, if the tabloids were to be believed, Snorter had no problems in that department, having already been taken to court several times by women on the receiving end of his overworked gonads.

‘And where did he… er… stay?’ I tried to be diplomatic. But I found it hard to believe he could have stayed in one of the crammed bedrooms. Snorter was no stranger to first-class hotels.

‘He stayed in with us, of course,’ said Mike. ‘He had the bed between me and young Christy here.’

Well, well, well, I thought. So the occasional famous person really did stay at the Cloisters. But the knowledge brought me no joy. Not much brought me joy, as I lived in the shadow of the questionnaire.

The three Fuses helped, though.

31

The following morning in group my relief was almost hysterical when it became clear that John Joe was to be centre stage.

Josephine started in on him immediately. ‘Last Friday, we were looking at your romantic and sexual history,’ she said. ’Perhaps you’ve had some time to think about it since then.’

He shrugged. I could have predicted that.

‘You’ve had what, viewed from the outside, at least, seems like a very lonely life. Would you agree with that?’

‘I suppose,’ he mumbled obligingly.

‘Why didn’t you ever marry?’ she asked, as she had asked on Friday.