the prodigy

This happened a few years ago.
Costa Cafe in the town of Naas.
Late afternoon.
Ireland's greatest living poet standing nonchalently in the queue.
And then.
I felt her before I saw her.
A wave of anger.
Anger was the presence.
I lifted my eyes from the contemplation of counter cakes.
Surreptitious glance to my right.
Yes it was the woman just ahead of me.
Dressed like an office professional.
Maybe an accountant or a lawyer.
Or someone who wanted to look like an accountant or a lawyer.
But I could feel the resentment.
Without looking at her directly.
I could feel it plain as day.
This one is waiting to go off, I mused to myself.
Glances like daggers.
Ah, so it's not my imagination.
I'm seeing her out of the corner of my eye.
I'm still pretending to look at the counter cakes.
Hmmm, thinks the noble Heelers, we'll just be calm here and keep a wide berth.
I thought this before any words were spoken.
She stepped smartly away from the counter with her tray of drinks.
She had three kids with her in tow.
A little boy of around ten, a little girl of six and a toddler who might have been two.
She stepped away from the counter and then thought again.
She turned.
"You," she said.
I didn't look up.
"You," she cried, louder this time, "you are the rudest man I've ever met."
Well folks.
I hadn't even been trying.
My spirit sank.
I knew this was a mugging.
You know what I mean.
One of those life things where you're doing nothing wrong, looking for no trouble, minding your own business, and next thing out of the blue you come into contact with someone hopped up on tablets, or deranged by office life, or on the rebound from a relationship meltdown, or just anxious to prove for whatever reason that they're bigger than whoever's standing next to them in a coffee shop queue...
You encounter em through no fault of your own and you know they just want to spread their pain.
Not share it.
Inflict it.
Misery loves company.
And here she was.
"You are a very rude man," she persisted voice rising towards a shout. "How dare you stand there like that. How dare you. You didn't even move to let me pass. How dare you."
The three children stood beside her in a little pool of stillness.
With a dull feeling in my heart I realised they'd seen it all before.
And then for some reason I decided not to just melt away into the woodwork.
I gave the lady a very plain look right in the eyes.
My words when they came were to the point.
I said slowly and clearly and oh so loudly too.
"I don't know you. Go away."
Her shouting raised the rafters.
Various phrases were audible.
None of them particularly appealing to a sensitive plant like myself.
The kids said not a word.
I was dimly aware of my countrymen, the Paddy Whacks of Ireland and their Paddy Whackesses, sitting quietly at the surrounding tables enjoying the floorshow.
The waitresses who have a passing acquaintance with me were looking at their shoes.
When the woman ran out of wind and fell silent, I spoke again.
"I don't know you," I repeated, "go away."
This time her shouting was operatic.
That Kiwi bird Kiri Te Kanawa would have been impressed.
By the noise, I mean.
Not the manners.
Or the derangement.
The lady was snarling at a waitress: "Get me the manager."
The waitress was shrugging helplessly.
A second waitress had used her initiative to brew me a caffe latte and had pressed it into my hand wordlessly.
I went to sit down.
I had a newspaper.
Rueful feelings filled my ancient heart.
I was thinking: Now I'm going to sit here, pretending to read my newspaper, pretending to be relaxed, pretending to savour my coffee, with everyone in the place looking at me out of the corner of their eyes wondering with strange high Irish fascination what sort of a scoundrel I am, had I robbed her, had I kicked her out of an apartment for non payment of rent, was she my ex lover, or what.
So I sat, unfolded the newspaper, and feigned relaxation.
The woman sat with her three children directly across the cafe from me.
More rueful thoughts.
I don't think I need to try and out stare this one.
Eyes on the newspaper Heelers.
That's the way.
Presently I felt a hand on my knee.
My eyes flickered.
It was the little girl.
A curtain of brown hair falling around her soft upturned face.
Her bright blue eyes fixed on mine.
Her hand on my knee.
For a brief shameful moment I nearly roared at her.
I nearly roared: "What the hell is going on! Get the hell away from me! Here you. You sitting over there. Come and get your child. This is outrageous."
And so on and so forth.
I did not roar.
I stayed silent.
The child's gaze was unwavering.
I didn't move a muscle.
To all intents and purposes it appeared as though I was still reading the newspaper.
My mind was racing.
This thought came.
What an amazing child.
No really what an amazing child.
She'd seen her mother in conflict with a stranger.
She'd seen how things had gone.
Then out of concern for the stranger, she'd walked across the cafe in front of everyone, and put her hand on my knee.
She was looking at me now with the purest most soulful gentleness.
With a shock I realised.
At last I knew.
What it meant.
I was seeing something extraordinary.
This was no ordinary child.
This was a prodigy.
A genius.
A Saint.
My heart shook.
This was a Mother Teresa of Calcutta before her public life had begun.
I was figuring in the story of one of the heavenly ones.
One who has been sent.
I was figuring in the part of the story that we don't normally get to hear about.
The childhood of a saint whose time has not yet come.
And then a pang in my heart.
I will never see what God has sent her to accomplish.
I have a walk on part in the unknown portion of her life.
That is all.
It's enough too.
It's richness beyond measure.
But I felt the pang just for a moment.
Ah yes.
I have met a saint.
And I was certain.
She will be famous.
She will be known.
She will do something beautiful for God.
But not for many years.
As truly as I'd sensed her mother's infernal anger, I sensed now the divine grace in the child.
But hang on.
What to do?
The situation had some awkward possibilities.
There was a little girl with her hand on my knee.
The little girl's mother had just accosted me for no reason.
If she chose to accost me again, she could really make it interesting now.
I spoke.
Softer than tears.
My voice as kind as any of you have ever heard it.
"It's okay little one," I said. "It's okay."
She trotted back to her mother and shortly afterwards I left the cafe.