‘A masterly account of the Republic of Ireland in the Sixties … conveys to the reader the excitement of the times with an enchanting freshness … Stembridge juggles characters and themes seemingly effortlessly, his stories are bedrocked by great humanity, and this huge book is, sadly, over almost before you know it. Wonderful.’
DAILY MAIL
‘Absorbing … fuses the everyday with the historical … Stembridge has been able to capture the powerful shifts in the cultural and political atmosphere of a historic decade’
SUNDAY TIMES (IRISH EDITION)
‘Full of human warmth and social detail…. Unspoken is about the arrival of modernity, new Ireland versus old … Television, pop music, Vatican II, foreign investment, a housing boom: each year some new thing chips away at the comely-maidens-dancing utopia envisioned by the founder of Fianna Fáil … [Stembridge] is reminding us that the larger moods of history begin in the small moods of individual moments. And he has done an excellent job of capturing both.’
IRISH TIMES
‘Gerry Stembridge is an outstanding, if somewhat unacknowledged, Irish artist … Anyone interested in Irish political history will find Dom and Dev’s interior monologues utterly fascinating … If future volumes are as curious and intriguing as this one, they will be worth the wait’
IRISH INDEPENDENT
‘Stembridge embraces an unloved city of the imagination and indeed a period of the entire island with unforgettable detail… Reading Unspoken is like being mesmerised by a story-telling Janus -- all human warmth and compassion from one mouth, cold accuracy and knowingness from the other. A wonderful achievement.’
EUGENE MCCABE
‘Unspoken is an evocative and powerful novel. Stembridge demonstrates a particular talent for creating memorable scenes and portraits of characters, public and private, who were hungry to embrace the opportunities of 1960s Ireland but who also had to wrestle with inner turmoil in a country on the cusp of modernisation. As a social, cultural and political history of that decade, Unspoken is authentic, honest and utterly absorbing.’
DIARMAID FERRITER
‘In the closing chapters of the book, by some literary sleight of hand, Stembridge manages to intertwine all his characters in a way that makes you genuinely care about them … All the historical and personal details had somehow, it seemed, accumulated into a believable whole … Emotionally satisfying and worthwhile.’
SUNDAY BUSINESS POST
‘A striking portrait of what Ireland used to be and what it is today. Unspoken is a fantastic novel’
BOOKMUNCH
‘There is no trace of authorly grumpiness in Unspoken. In fact, for a man who tore self-important politicians asunder with the late Dermot Morgan in the landmark Scrap Saturday radio series, who returned to lampooning a few years ago in TV’s The State of Us, and who gave us dark films like Guiltrip in between, his current work is an unexpectedly warm and affectionate portrait of a people and a period, despite their obvious shortcomings.’
IRISH EXAMINER
‘One of the most interesting writing minds this country has produced in recent decades … Stembridge is a man of formidable talent’
IRISH INDEPENDENT
‘A great modern novel about that most infernal of dilemmas – the family.’
DOUGLAS KENNEDY --…
UNSPOKEN
GERARD STEMBRIDGE
For my brother, David
‘Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height.’
E.M. FORSTER
Contents
Praise
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
1959
One: June 17th–18th
Two: June 21st
1960
Three: August 7th
1961
Four. December 31st
1962
Five: January 1st
1963
Six: November 20th
1964
Seven: May 28th
Eight: October 10th
1965
Nine: March 20th
Ten: June 14th
1966
Eleven: January 26th
Twelve: February 1st
Thirteen: March 18th
Fourteen: April 15th
Fifteen: May 14th
Sixteen: June 17th
Seventeen: September 10th
Eighteen: September 13th
Nineteen: November 5th
1967
Twenty: February 14th
Twenty-one: June 18th–19th
Twenty-two: September 30th
Twenty-three: December 30th
1968
Twenty-four: March 10th.
Twenty-five: March 11th
Twenty-six: March 12th
Twenty-seven: June 6th
Twenty-eight: October 5th
1969
Twenty-nine: January 10th
Thirty: June 19th
Thirty-one: November 15th
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Author
ALSO BY GERARD STEMBRIDGE
Copyright
1959
One: June 17th–18th
Ann Strong did not vote in the presidential election because, on that June evening, her waters broke. She was in the downstairs flat with Martin, her youngest, when it happened. The other children were out playing. Ann was standing over the gas cooker waiting for the milk to boil. She could hardly bear to look at it. Martin was sitting at the table tearing at a slice of bread and dropping the pieces into his special mug.
‘Mam, can I put the sugar in?’
‘No, you’ll put in too much. I’ll do that in a minute. Have patience.’
Martin had pestered her to make Goody for him. He loved it when she plopped, on top of the mixture of hot milk, bread and sugar, a big lump of butter that melted and spread into a golden lake. He was getting to be an awful size for five, but, on the other hand, wasn’t that better than being skin-and-bone and looking like he’d never had a decent dinner put into him? Ann would later be able to recall the exact time it all started to happen because she had just looked at the clock wondering when Fonsie would get home from work. In the long summer evenings he sold less and had to travel further out of town; it was ridiculous. Sometimes he’d be out until nearly ten but the polling stations were due to close at nine so, tonight at least, he’d surely be home in good time to eat his tea first and clean himself. Ann was not going voting with him if he was black with coal, that was sure and certain.
It was just coming up to quarter to seven. She felt a heave, a shift, deep inside her. The pressure was sudden and made her step back. This was early by a few days at least, but, after four children, Ann knew for certain what was coming next. She grabbed the sweeping brush straight away and banged the ceiling three times. Poor little Martin got a fright at this and didn’t know if he should cry. Ann tried to move quickly to the bedroom so, at the very least, she could close the door against him in case it happened before Mary Storan came down from upstairs, but then she had to stop and stand completely still right in the middle of the front room. One more step and something would burst.
Despite the panic her anxious brain began sorting out arrangements. Ritchie and Gussie would have to wait here to tell their father that she had to go out. What would she tell them to tell Fonsie? Could she trust them to get his tea ready for him? He’d have to eat before he went to vote. She was sure that Mary Storan – was that her coming downstairs now? – wouldn’t mind looking after Marian and Martin and maybe she might… At that very second Ann realised she hadn’t turned off the gas on the stove. The milk would boil over. Martin was sta
nding in the door between the kitchen and the front room, his face twisting into a big puss. Ann didn’t dare to try and move a step, let alone go past him back into the kitchen. Through the wall behind her she definitely now heard Mary Storan’s footsteps thumping down from the upstairs flat. The pressure was really painful now; it was the luck of God Mary could let herself in. It was obvious that Martin was going to let out a big wail any second if his mam didn’t say something to comfort him. Ann heard the click of the key in the door and thought, Oh thanks be to Jesus!
Mary Storan stuck her head into the front room. ‘It’s started?’
Ann nodded and waved towards the kitchen. ‘The milk… quick.’
‘What, you want a cup of milk?’
As long as Ann had known her, which was since they’d met in babies class more than thirty years ago, whenever Mary Storan, or Mary Halpin as was, was requested or instructed to do anything, she automatically asked a question back. Ann’s oldest pal was totally incapable of just doing what she was told. It was not some rebellious spirit in her, just a peculiar habit she could not seem to break, even though she’d suffered regular punishments as a child for stubbornness and cheek. Only a year ago, out walking with her husband Mikey, Mary had stepped out onto the road and even though she heard him behind her shouting ‘Get back, Mary!’ instead of doing the simple thing and stepping back, she’d just kept walking cool as you like and when Mikey kept roaring at her, ‘For Jesus’ sake!’ she turned her head then all right and saw him waving his arms like mad. But still she had to ask a question. ‘What’s the big panic about?’
Of course the words were hardly out of her mouth when she felt the blow on her shoulder and went flat out on the ground. Mary broke her wrist that day but the accident changed none of her old habits. Right now, Ann, who usually had a good laugh at her pal’s little ways, just wanted to scream at her. This was no time for asking questions. Already she could hear hissing and smell burning from the kitchen. Mary, still talking, didn’t seem to notice: ‘Maybe a drop of water would be better for you than milk. Milk can very heavy on… you know –’
Suddenly, Martin opened his mouth and wailed as if they were all going to be killed. Ann could tell from the way he was facing that he could see the milk pumping over the top of the saucepan and streaming down onto the gas flame. At least his roaring made Mary Storan stop talking and go to calm him. Which meant that, finally, she smelled and saw the foaming, burning milk.
‘Martin, love, your mam doesn’t want to be listening to – ah!’
Now at last, she jumped to switch off the gas, grab the saucepan and throw it into the sink.
‘Jesus, Ann! You’re after leaving the gas on. Well, isn’t it lucky I came down straight away, God only knows what might have happened. Now! Listen, there’s no point in me cleaning that up. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out later. God help us, are you all right?’
When Mary Storan came back into the front room, she looked kindly at Ann, because she could tell, from the rigid way she was holding herself, how muddled and panicky she must be feeling, and Mary knew well that was all on account of the miscarriage. Between sitting next to her in school and palling around during their working days in Roches Stores and living above her in Rowan Place since 1950 when her Shamie and Ann’s Ritchie and Gussie were only babies, Mary Storan knew Ann Strong, Ann Casey as was, better than anyone. She remembered well how Ann just took it in her stride when she had Marian and Martin, even though Marian, God bless her, was huge, over ten pounds. But once Ann lost her next, six months in, poor thing, that changed her completely. Mary remembered it so well because she was nearly five months gone herself at that time. Indeed she often wondered if maybe it made it worse in a way that she had no bother at all with her Martha. From then on, Ann got it into her head that she’d never have another healthy baby. She had whispered as much to Mary one day when they were walking up to the convent to collect Marian and her Catríona, who were both in senior infants at the time. Mary tried to make light of it.
‘Go ’way outta that, Ann, sure there’s barely a year between us, and I’m certainly not finished yet, not if Mikey Storan has anything to do with it.’
Ann didn’t even laugh along with her. ‘I just don’t think it’s meant to be.’
So, when Ann told her late last year that she was expecting again, Mary could see how nervous and cagey she was. Then, six months in, Ann seemed to relax a tiny bit, but it didn’t take much to bring back all the fear. Now, here she was, still as a statue, whispering to Mary like there was hardly any breath in her body.
‘Take Martin upstairs out of the way.’
‘Are you that close?’
Ann made a terrible face like something was already happening.
‘Yes! Straight away Mary. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’
Something in her voice, or something anyway, made Mary yank Martin’s hand and pull him into the little hall. Sure enough, as she closed the door, there was poor Ann, bent over, pulling at her nylons, liquid running down her legs. Mary slammed the door just in time and let out a smoke-cracked roar up the stairs.
‘Shamie! Shamie! Martin, you go on upstairs there now, my Shamie has something nice for you. I’ll be up in a minute.’
Martin blubbed and wouldn’t budge. No sign of Shamie. Mary had left him up there doing his sums only two minutes ago. Oh if he was after sneaking out…
‘Shamie! Look after Martin Strong for a few minutes, will you. Shamie, do you hear me? Go on, Martin. Ah, stop crying love, sure Shamie has something nice for you… Shamie!’
Finally, a lazy voice drifted down. ‘What?’
‘Come down here and take this child up, will you?’
‘I’m doing my ecker.’
‘I’m warning you, Shamie Storan! If I have to come up t’ya.’
Her eldest appeared on the landing, which was lucky for him because one more second and Mary would have been up the stairs to give him a clatter. She prodded Martin up.
‘And give him some bread and jam!’
Mary opened the door of the downstairs flat just enough for her to squeeze in. Poor Ann was on her knees in the wet, her knickers down, her hand over her mouth, trying not to make a noise.
‘What’ll I do? I don’t know when Fonsie will be home to bring me to St Gerard’s. The baby’s going to die, I know it.’
Her breathing was hysterical now. The only way to calm her down was for Mary to act pure casual.
‘It’ll be grand. I’ll take you now straight away. I’ll get your Ritchie to run down and see is Jimmy Mac at home.’
She went to the hot press for towels.
‘A taxi. I can’t afford a taxi.’
‘Ann, Jimmy won’t charge much.’
When Mary felt the towels and realised that nearly everything in the hot press was wet or damp, she was wise enough to say nothing. There must be a leak in the tank. That was the last thing Ann needed to know right now.
‘No, no, sure Fonsie will bring me in the lorry.’
‘Fonsie mightn’t come home for hours yet.’
Mary chose what felt like the driest towel. Hopefully, in her distress Ann wouldn’t notice. She’d go off the deep end entirely if she knew that all her lovely washing was destroyed.
‘No, he said definitely he was going to vote tonight, so he’ll have to –’
‘Ah Jesus! Ann, you’re getting the taxi and that’s that. Now here, dry yourself and –’
‘I’d better clean the floor.’
‘Never mind the floor! Just get changed quick as you can.’
Mary went to the front door wishing she’d brought her fags down with her. She was dying for a smoke. On the green outside, Ann’s two eldest, Ritchie and Gussie, were playing football with a load of other boys. Mary knew which of the brothers she could trust to do exactly what he was told.
‘Ritchie Strong!’
No child, not even boys lost in the intensity of a football match, could ignore Mary Storan’s hoarse man’s roar. It carried
its authority a very long way. Ritchie, his hand up, calling for a pass, turned immediately and saw Mrs Storan waving at him. ‘Come here, I wancha!’ What had he done? It sounded like trouble. If Shamie Storan said he’d done something, he was a liar. He ran over immediately. His brother Gussie wondered what was going on, but only for a second because the ball came his way. He trapped it, dribbled past Noel Geary, who was useless, and shot way wide of the two big old trees that were the goalposts. When he looked again there was no sign of either Mrs Storan or his elder brother.
Ritchie Strong was relieved to find out that he wasn’t in trouble, but why did Mrs Storan pull him into the hall, close the front door and talk to him in a whisper? He was to run to Mr Mac’s as fast as he could and say that Mrs Storan sent him but the taxi was for his mam. Ritchie didn’t know what was going on. Mr and Mrs Storan were always out all hours and were often driven home by Mr Mac, but he couldn’t ever remember his mother taking a taxi, even once, in his whole life, so there must be something very serious going on. And where was his mam? Why was the door to their flat shut?
‘Tell Mr Mac that I said, listen to me now, Ritchie –’
Mrs Storan seemed to think for a second. Then she spoke very carefully.
‘Tell him your mam is started already. All right? Now, hurry.’
Started what? Ritchie was dying to ask but he could tell that it was more important to get Mr Mac straight away. He’d never called to his house before, although he’d often seen him coming and going in his black Zephyr. Mr Mac had put concrete down where the front garden used to be so he could park it off the road. Ritchie ran fast and could see the Zephyr from far off, so that meant Mr Mac was home. He knocked and waited, feeling a bit afraid. Was there something the matter with his mam? What if Mr Mac refused to go? If he was having his tea? Mrs Mac opened the door.
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