Call Me the Breeze

by Patrick McCabe

  Then he’d laugh, and so would Merv.

  ‘It wasn’t his fault he had to put us into the home!’ he said then, as the governor put his hand on his shoulder. ‘I hated those children’s homes! All I wanted was to go back to our own house! To hear him read the books! He always read cowboys! John Wayne, Mr Recks!’

  He’d get excited whenever he talked like that, trying to explain how he felt in this high-pitched voice. That was all he’d ever wanted, he used to tell me at night in the cell, and every time ending up saying the same: ‘It wasn’t me father’s fault he put us intill the home. I hated them children’s homes.’

  His mother had died and his father had developed a drink problem — that was why he’d done it. It was great for Bonehead to get it all off his chest, for you could see he had never told anyone before. The day before he left the prison — three years to the day before me — he told me that he’d never thought it could happen that way, that in you come broken and out you go mended. ‘I feel like I could burt the world with kicks!’ he said. ‘I’ve got all my plans worked-ed out! First I’m going to get a job and then I’m going to meet a nice woman and make her proud of me, Joesup! I’ll see she never wants! And it’s you I’ve to thank for it, you and Merv! So whenever I meet her you’re to come around till see us! Promise me that, Joesup! Me old buddy — De Man! Promise me that you’ll come around and meet this beautiful woman! The woman that won’t care I was ever inside because — I don’t have to tell you, Joesup, you know!’

  ‘Because she loves you,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said, and shivered.

  So you learnt a lot about people in the prison, once they felt they could trust you, anyway. I guess to tell the truth Mountjoy is where I learnt everything. And why, in a way, I was sorry to leave it. But I had the good sense not to dwell on that, for as the governor said as he was handing me his letter of reference, if I had learnt anything at all he hoped it was a sense of one’s ‘self-worth’, as he called it, and how everything if you wanted it could now be considered attainable. ‘It’s not the end,’ said Mervin as he shook my hand and said goodbye, ‘but the beginning.’

  I couldn’t stop myself thinking about Bono as I stood there inside that office — of him clutching his mike as he tossed back his head and then, over the squealing feedback, his voice rolling out across the packed stadium as he pronounced that he ‘agreed with the governor … that the governor knows … the deal!’

  And why, I suppose, in a moment of pure ‘bonding’ because I knew what he said was true and that the place he was coming from was genuine, I just went over and hugged Mervin and hugged him hard.

  It was both the hardest thing and the easiest thing I have ever had to do, leaving Mountjoy on that summer’s day, three years after Bone. Hard because I’d never again meet people like the governor, and easy because I knew that was nonsense, that was the old way of thinking. Because now, in the town of Scotsfield and everywhere else, absolutely anything was up for grabs. Boomtown, they were calling it in the papers now. I couldn’t wait.

  I had a tape of The Joshua Tree in my shoulder bag so I just slipped it into the Walkman as the bus took off down the main north road, and the twinkling sun that dappled the trees might have been the pure and uplifting crystal-clear harmonics of the guitar as played by The Edge.

  Scotsfield Breakaway Bonanza

  I was hardly back in Scotsfield a week, most of which had been taken up with me trying to get the mobile home habitable again — it was in an awful state — and was standing on the bank steps wondering what my next move might be when I looked up and who’s coming barrelling down the street? Fr Connolly. He was all business, loaded down with forms — nothing to do with any peace rallies this time, but the ‘Scots-field Breakaway Bonanza’, no less! He was full of it, rabbitting on nineteen to the dozen. ‘A sort of variety festival,’ he explained. ‘A bit like the “Tops of the Town” jamboree we had years ago, Joseph — I don’t know if you remember it — but a lot bigger and better, in keeping with the spirit of the times. For we’ve come a long way, Joseph, as I’m sure you can see! I’m afraid with your Sky TV and your multiplex picture houses you’ll be a long time waiting for anyone to come out for your shows if you haven’t made the effort! I think you have to work twice as hard these days, people are that spoiled! But still, it’s good to see a few shillings going about for a change, isn’t it? God knows, we were long enough without it.’

  As if to emphasize his point, a stretch limo draped in streamers went honking through the town, followed by a long line of equally clamorous expensive-looking cars. ‘They’re all off to Dublin. Boyle Henry’s young lassie’s getting married.’

  ‘Is that right?’ I found myself saying, trying my best to camouflage my involuntary wincing.

  ‘Aye. His wife wasn’t well there, you know. They were afraid she nightn’t make the wedding. But she’s all right now, thank God.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, she’s a lovely woman, Mrs Henry. A real lady, and a terrific doctor! I can tell you that from experience, having attended her over the years. He thinks the world of her, you know. Adores the ground she walks upon, so he does.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Sure he wouldn’t be half the man he was only for her. “I’ll see that husband of mine in the Dail one day,” I remember her saying to me, oh, way back, Joseph. Which she didn’t, maybe, but as good as. And maybe he’s better off being a senator.’

  Senator Boyle Henry. I had to admit it sounded good.

  ‘He’s done Trojan work behind the scenes for a settlement in Northern Ireland, Joseph. Works night and day. Sometimes I’m going by late at night and I see him up there, going through his papers. Won’t rest until every tiny detail is dealt with! That’s the kind of him! I dare say only for him and hard-grafting men like him you wouldn’t be seeing the changes that have come about in Scotsfield lately, eh, Joseph?’

  I nodded and folded my arms, running my eyes across the roofs of the town. The shopping centre had finally been built — a brightly coloured American-style mall complete with all the high-street franchises — including the long-desired McDonald’s hamburger restaurant. Austie’s had been sold and was now a wine and cocktail bar — Doc Oc’s — themed inside with a waterfall and exotic greenery and easy-listening music playing all day long. There were hanging flower baskets everywhere and a swanky Italian restaurant where the chip shop used to be. Stretched across the main street was a white banner with the name of his festival printed in red: ‘Scotsfield Breakaway Bonanza — cominatcha!’

  We got talking some more then, and when I began to elaborate on my experiences in the entertainment field in Mountjoy, he was all ears, he really was. For that was one great thing you were able to say about Connolly: he always saw the best in everyone. And if you had something to offer the parish, then he would be the man to spot it. ‘So you produced a concert in there, did you, Joseph?’ he says, and I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I was very involved in all that area.’

  ‘It doesn’t come as any surprise to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll bet you didn’t know that years ago — God bless us it must have been 1949 or ’50 — we did a production of The Desert Song with both your father and mother in it. I’ll bet you didn’t know that, Joseph?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I didn’t,’ I said. It took me completely by surprise.

  ‘It was absolutely terrific. Of course, your father Jamesy was a marvellous singer. There was no one to touch him in those days, Joseph. Ah yes, they were great days. You couldn’t move up the street the first night it opened, that show. Another great favourite of his was “Harbour Lights” by Jimmy Kennedy. But you’d hardly remember that. So you got on well above in Mountjoy then, did you, Joseph?’

  ‘I was in charge of the prison garden too,’ I told him.

  ‘Well, that is just fantastic,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you were able to find something that you liked, for the time would hang heavy on you now, I’m sure, if you did
n’t. And what else did you do?’

  I told him about the concerts and my acting stint as Guard Mullanney.

  ‘Boys,’ he said, ‘but that must have been funny. You as a policeman — I just can’t picture it, Joseph!’

  ‘Anything is possible,’ I found myself saying then, echoing the governor’s words with a great big grin plastered across my face.

  He shook his head and said: ‘That’s the attitude! If only we had more of that attitude in Scotsfield! But, you know something, Joseph? I think it’s coming! I think the bad times will be soon behind us, what with this ceasefire and everything, people at last getting sense into their heads! The days of the killing and bombing and young men being sent out to die will soon be a thing of the past. Would you say so, Joseph?’

  I said that I hoped so, because I genuinely did.

  We got talking some more — I think we must have been standing on those steps for the guts of an hour and a half — and when he saw my letter of reference, I think that was what clinched it. Up until then he’d been a little bit hesitant — maybe he thought I’d come out of prison far worse than I’d been when I went in, having picked up bad habits from all sorts of rotten apples — but he saw clearly now that that wasn’t the case. His eyes glittered as he stroked his chin and said: ‘You know we’d be glad of any expertise you might be able to offer. It can be difficult at times to motivate people. You know yourself how things are in a little town like this.’

  I thought for a minute before picking up the courage. Then I said it: ‘But might it not be a problem, having me involved? After everything I’ve done, I mean?’

  He contemplated his toes for a moment or two and then said: ‘Yes, I admit that I can see there might be one or two on the committee who’d have reservations. But then isn’t that what you hear on the radio these days every time you turn it on? That we must give priority to reintegrating offenders into our community now that all our political troubles seem to be coming to an end. I mean, if we can’t extend the hand of friendship and reconciliation to one of our own, well, what is the whole thing then — only some sort of hypocritical farce? Anyway, Joseph, your father and me and your mother, God rest her, we go back a long, long way. I remember one morning coming out after Mass and there they were standing in the churchyard. We’ll go for a drive, says I — I had the old Morris then — and that’s exactly what we did. We went off and had ourselves a picnic. Do you know what your mother always called that day?’ The day we had the “Picnic of Dreams”, she used to say. And I hope it doesn’t embarrass you, Joseph, but do you know what we used to call them in those days of The Desert Song? The “lovebirds” — that’s what we called them. For the pair of them, you couldn’t separate them. The lovebirds, Joseph — that was their name. Out by the reservoir, walking in the spring rain, hand in hand. And two great people they were.’

  He tapped his thumbs and then looked at his shoes one more time before saying: ‘Well, I’ve dawdled about here long enough, I’m afraid, although it’s been great chatting to you, Joseph. I’m delighted to see you again and to see you looking so well. Just remember that now you’ve paid your debt to society it’s everything to play for in the little town of Scotsfield!’

  ‘Exactly what Mervin said!’ I beamed. ‘The very words he used, Fr Connolly!’

  ‘Everything to play for, Joseph! The field’s wide open and you’ve got the ball, Joey Tallon!’

  Then — surprisingly nimbly, for he was getting on in years now — he swivelled on his heel and was gone with a skip, off down the street with the black soutane flapping.

  Well, after that I was as high as a kite, not being able to believe my good fortune. Hardly one day back and here I was, right back in the heart of the community like I’d never been away!

  I went straight back out to the campsite then. Well, whatever about stretch limos, malls and flash eating houses, there was one constant in Scotsfield and that was it right there, in front of me, with no alterations whatso-fucking-ever, apart from a few new busted car wrecks and another mangy fucker of a dog. I knocked up old Mangan, who hadn’t exactly metamorphosed dramatically either, squinting out the window behind the curtain and waving me away before I managed to get around him to let me in. As suspicious as bedamned, of course, not sure if I was playing games or not. But in the end I convinced him I wasn’t — I had learnt a lot from Mervin there too: that if you’re open and honest, people will generally respond. It might take a while but gradually they’ll relax and you’ll bring out the good in them also. I made clear to him that what was most important to me was that we put all our old differences behind us. The more I thought about it, the more I came to realize just how vast the treasure trove of skills that prison had bequeathed to me actually was. I seemed to be discovering new things all the time. It dawned on me now that I could communicate with people. Share their thoughts, anxieties. Tell them about my own. We could solve problems together now. By talking things through. It really was a terrific discovery. Of course, there could be no denying that it did help a little that your head wasn’t full of cannabis smoke, not to mention lysergic acid diethylamide.

  As soon as I’d finished talking to Mangan, I set about finishing my work. My caravan renovations, I mean. The guts of a week’s hard labour on it and still it was looking a shambles. The young fuckers had been in, obviously using it for screwing. They had painted WEIRDO and DRUGGIE and KIDNAPPER on the walls and done an aerosol painting of me in the nip, with this great big giant eyepatch, of course. The eyepatch was bigger than the turnip-shaped man with this big long willie hanging down between his feet. But I didn’t let it bother me and by midnight that night, the place, if not quite inhabitable, at least was a lot more bearable. I felt exhausted but proud and raring to go.

  Breakaway Meeting

  As we’d arranged, I called up to the presbytery the following afternoon for a preliminary meeting with Fr Connolly regarding the forthcoming festival. The more he told me about it, the easier it all appeared to be. For a start you had a lot more resources at your disposal than you ever would have had in prison and, of course, weren’t being watched every minute of the day by a couple of disgruntled screws who didn’t approve of you being allowed to do it at all. Which you had to deal with in The Joy all the time, for not everyone was as decent as Mervin Recks. ‘No, it’s a great idea,’ I said to Fr Connolly as I gathered up my pamphlets and stuff. ‘And it’s great to be involved with it! Open up those windows, Father, and let that fresh air in!’

  ‘It was great to see you again yesterday, Joseph,’ he said as he opened the front door to let me out. ‘And especially great to see you in such fine fettle! You look over those now and we’ll talk again in a week or so!’

  ‘Sure will, Father!’ I replied as I gave him a big thumbs-up and almost went skipping off down the road I was in such a hurry to show off what I’d learnt in prison. Knowing full well in my heart that there would be a lot of people in the community who would be expecting me to come back with all sorts of hang-ups, complexes and chips or whatever. No chance was that ever going to happen now, not with people like Merv and Fr C. on your side!

  ‘Tops Responsibility’

  It was my job — or ‘Tops Responsibility’, if you like — to oversee the ‘Tops of the Town’ revue which Connolly had planned for a bit of a laugh and to go around the pubs to try and persuade people who might initially not be all that interested — and, as I soon began to realize, there were quite a few of those, let me tell you — to become involved. Yes, there was indeed a not insignificant number who hadn’t, they made it clear, the slightest intention of co-operating with Connolly — particularly after the disaster of the original peace rally and, of course, everything that had emerged since about clerical child abuse and so on. I remember going into the pub one day and hearing Oweny Casey saying: ‘There’s only one thing now for them sky pilots after what’s come out — castrate the whole lot of the fuckers!’

  I have to admit I was embarrassed when I heard him saying
that. Not on the priests’ behalf but because of a troubled sleep I’d had the night before and a repeat of the Jacy ‘funeral dream’, which really did have the effect of upsetting me. Because when I awoke it was still there, lingering, ushering in a familiar gloom which hadn’t visited me for a long time. I don’t know how you’d describe it. It was sort of heartbreaking, really. Like being told for sure that you’re free and then having thirty years added to your sentence.

  All morning I hadn’t been able to get it out of my head, their faces as they stood around chatting while I hung up there on the cross with my face the spit of Charles Manson’s. So I suppose it came as no surprise that I was already pretty high when I got as far as Doc Oc’s. To the extent of being so busy concentrating on wiping my brow that I misjudged the papers — I had put everything, in the style of the later Bone-head, into a folder marked ‘Tops’ — and let them all fall on the floor.

  ‘Well, would you look who it is!’ says Hoss. ‘The Top Man! How are they hanging, Josie? Long time no see!’

  ‘Hey! What you do?’ laughed Sandy McGloin. ‘You home, Joey, old pal? Well then, welcome home!’

  Just then, Austie appeared behind the bar, grinning. I was taken aback, as for some reason I had expected him to be gone too. But no, there he was, large as life and serving away like old times. Except now decked out in a striped shirt and dicky bow with an embossed name badge on his waistcoat. ‘Ah, would you look at him! Home is the hero!’ he laughed and flicked his dishcloth, humming along with Andy Williams. Hoss and Sandy were looking good too, both dressed in expensive suits and exuding the air of men who had things to do. Things that couldn’t wait. Sandy owned the Texaco garage now, he told me, and Hoss had a few things going. ‘This and that,’ he laughed when I asked him. ‘Bottled spring water, video shops! You know yourself!’