‘She’s gone on a vigil. Mrs Storan took her in the taxi.’
A vigil? It took Fonsie a few seconds then, suddenly, he understood everything. Even the wet floor began to make sense. Now he felt a little panic. Poor Ann. Was she all right? He’d better go to St Gerard’s straight away. What about the children? Leave them here? More fighting? He couldn’t bring his gang back down to their flat until it was cleaned up. What about Mikey Storan?
‘Is your dad working tonight?’
Shamie nodded. Once the last screening at the Carlton was over, Mikey still had to unspool the reels and get everything ready for the next day. He wouldn’t be back until half eleven at least. Was Mary going to stay with Ann? She could be there all night. Seven children stared up at him, expecting the worst. Fonsie had to take charge.
‘Right… ah… sit at the table.’
‘There’s only four chairs.’
‘Shut up, Gussie! Right so. Marian, share with Gussie. Catriona, share with Martin. Shamie, put Martha on your lap there. Ritchie, sit there. Now, Gussie, what are you doing with that knife?’
‘Mrs Storan said we could have bread and jam. Ritchie said it.’
Gussie was no fool. He knew that Ritchie would be believed before him.
‘Ritchie?’
‘That’s what Mrs Storan said to me, and she said –’
‘My mam only told me I was to give Martin bread and jam.’
‘All right, all right! Shamie, take the knife and the loaf of bread. Now, you’re in charge of cutting the bread. I want you to cut seven slices, all right? Catríona, will you put butter on each slice? And Marian, put jam on.’
Gussie tried to speak.
‘I’d be much better at cutting –’
‘Gussie, I’m warning you!’
Gussie had never heard his dad’s voice like that, so for once he shut up, though he knew for sure he’d be much better at cutting bread than that fool Shamie Storan, who was doing it all crooked.
‘Now. I’m going downstairs for a wash. Take one slice of bread and jam each and don’t let me hear a peep out of you for the next five minutes.’
His heart thumping, Fonsie walked downstairs scarcely believing the obedient silence behind him. Where had he suddenly discovered the voice to take control like that? It was only when he passed the mirror in their hall that he realised how terrifying he must have looked even to his own children. His green eyes dancing out from a coaldust face made him look demented. Instead of going straight to the bathroom for a wash, he turned on the light in the front room to look at the pool of grey liquid. Poor Ann. She must have been up the walls. He picked up last week’s Chronicle and got on his hands and knees. She had herself convinced that this child was going to die and of course he had never been able to think of anything to say that might reassure her or persuade her of a happier outcome. He pulled the pages of the newspaper apart and spread them out on the lino to soak up the liquid. As it seeped across, darkening each page, he prayed that Ann was all right. Would the baby be OK? As best he could he covered most of the wet. A familiar husky voice took him by surprise.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Fonsie Strong, I wish I had you for a husband.’
Mary Storan lit a Craven ‘A’ and sat down. What was it about her? She was cool out. Never got herself in a tizzy about anything. Between puffs her chatty tone had a calming effect on Fonsie as she told him that Ann was grand, flying it, in a lovely comfy bed, and that Mrs Lynch had said it could be three hours or it could be twelve, so it was up to himself if he wanted to go down now and wait around or leave it until the morning. A couple of voices from upstairs rose loud enough to be heard. Mary casually bellowed at the ceiling.
‘I’m down here now and I swear if I have to come up t’ya!’
An arctic silence followed. Mary grinned and took a puff.
‘Take your time, Fonsie, have a wash and something to eat and then go down. I’ll clean this up. And don’t worry about those balubas above. Go on.’
Later, crossing town to St Gerard’s, a scrubbed Fonsie rattled by the Our Lady of Consolation convent school that was the local polling station. The election workers were just locking the doors. Well, even his mother might accept that he had a reasonable excuse for not voting tonight. Might.
*
Once daylight began to fade and the lamps were lit in the parlour, Éamon liked the golden scrim that filled his old eyes like mist on a summer dawn. He heard tip-tap steps coming from the kitchen up the tiled hall, and then he saw the little round shape of her carrying what he knew was a tray of tea and coconut creams. Éamon stepped in the direction of the rattling porcelain as she placed the tray next to his favourite chair. When he sat down she took his hand gently and guided it to his cup, then his little plate, then the larger plate with the coconut creams. There would be five. He knew this of old. Two for him and two for her and then the last, which she would offer and he would decline, leaving her free to take it. The sound of tea pouring. If he could focus his gaze directly enough he would surely see her smile in his direction. Then a generous sup of milk was added. The gentle hand guided his to the saucer. He took it in his grasp, in control of it now. Once he had it, he could place it down and pick it up at will. He could reach out his free hand on the other side and find, precisely, the telephone, where it was placed by the reading lamp to the left of the armchair. He saw her form ease down into the chair directly opposite. He saw the motion of an arm and heard her sipping tea. Very soon, she would speak.
‘Síochán ag deireadh’n lae.’
Éamon could not have agreed more. It was indeed peaceful at this day’s end and her soft Irish was, to him, part of that, like birdsong in the country air. Such tranquillity after a hectic election day. All that going about, speaking and thinking in English. It was peaceful now to hear her melodious blas. He reached forward with precision and planted two long fingers on a coconut cream, which he plucked and placed in his saucer. A pleasure deferred, a pleasure increased. The polls had been closed for half an hour now. Seán would ring before ten.
‘I suppose Seán will be calling very soon?’
Éamon smiled at the synchronicity of their thoughts. Parallel lines that had long ago reached their infinity. Again he saw the motion of her arm and heard a soft crunch of biscuit as she bit into her coconut cream. It made him crave the elastic sweetness of mallow in his mouth. He pondered the dangerous urgencies of a sweet tooth. Most of his cabinet, his former cabinet now, wouldn’t thank you for a biscuit, if whiskey was the alternative. Often, during a meeting, it would come upon him, even as he leaned forward to snatch at another fig roll, that he had already eaten twice as many, and more, as anyone else there.
‘Soon. Before ten.’
He bit and chewed softly. Will victory be with me? After forty years of elections Éamon accepted that, during these hours, this long night and day between the closing of the polls and the declaration of a result, it was virtually impossible for the mind to accommodate grand policies, long-term ideals, or anything very lofty at all. Like the dog who sits staring at the cat in the tree. Like the cat who waits with perfect patience for the opportune moment to leap free, for these few hours at least it all came down to the one question above all else: will victory be with me? On the face of it, it seemed certain. He would know a little more when Seán phoned and he would know without doubt this time tomorrow. Why then sit with tea and a sweet biscuit, conjecturing on a future reality which had been, in fact, already determined? It was an illogical activity, entirely at odds with the rigour of his training and his ideals.
‘Have you any wish on you to listen to Radio Éireann?’
‘Please yourself.’
He watched the little round form move across the parlour in a halo of golden light. If he won they would have to leave Herberton for the next seven years. He would miss this calm graceful avenue where they had been content for so long. Though they’d had three different homes on the one road, this comfy parlour was his favourite place of a
ll. Was it because the children were more or less grown up and gone by the time they moved here that the house felt like it belonged more to themselves only? A solo concertina played a foot-tapping tune. The music seemed of a piece with the warm light that filled his eyes. Her face came close, almost in clear focus.
‘You won’t refuse another drop?’
‘I won’t.’
He lifted the cup and she poured the tea. La-tata, la-tata, la-tatatatata. Ta-ta-ta-tee-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta, taaa. Where could there be more contentment than this, in its simplicity and joy? Was it not this vision of such moments that he had tried to articulate to the people all his political life. Had they listened? Had they learned? Was it now too late for him to do anything more? He knew better than anyone the nature of the office he might be about to accept. After all, he had created and defined it. And limited it. When Éamon wrote the Constitution he had designed the Presidency as a position of great privilege and honour, indeed, the highest honour the State could bestow on a citizen of distinction. He had also made absolutely sure that no real power resided in the office he now sought and seemed likely to win. Éamon had no meas on irony.
Some months ago Seán had sat in the armchair where, just now, the little round form was easing herself back down. The late afternoon sun through the bay window had struck his old lieutenant directly from behind, making of him a sinister black form. It was only a few days before last Christmas. The talk had seemed to turn in quite a natural way to what lay ahead in the coming year but as soon as Seán had said, ‘Now Taoiseach, the presidential election,’ Éamon understood his larger intent.
‘We’ll have to find a good replacement for Seán T. Fine Gael will definitely want to fight an election this time.’
In the silence that followed this observation Éamon wondered how many of the more cowardly colleagues had nudged Seán forward to come and speak to him at this time? How many of the young ambitious impatient ones had exhorted him? There must have been a lot of pressure if poor Seán had called round so close to Christmas, talking of nothing and everything.
Éamon weighed the choice that was delicately, but determinedly being laid before him. If he did not offer himself as President on this occasion, then the opportunity would be lost for seven years. Could he continue to run the country as Taoiseach for another seven years and then, at eighty-four, take on the Presidency as a dignified retirement gift? Seven more years’ daily political cut and thrust? In these times? He would have to win at least one more general election during that time or else he’d be out on his ear entirely. He recognised that Seán was gently nudging him to consider these things; what might be considered the logic of his situation. It was Éamon’s greatest pride that, as well as being a man of vision, he was a man of logic. He had often noted in the past, however, how so few had any proper understanding of the true nature of logic.
The phone rang. Éamon reached and placed his hand directly on the receiver. He picked up and greeted the caller in his own tongue. After a ‘Dia dhuit a Thaoiseach’ and an enquiry as to how he was after such a long busy day, Seán, as Éamon expected, reverted to English.
‘I’ve been ringing all round, and the general assessment is that we’re home and hosed. Mac Eoin might do all right in Dublin, but even there he won’t be ahead of you. Oh, by the way, Dr Pat said to tell you that County Clare came out in force as you’d expect. An eighty-twenty margin he thinks.’
‘That’s a great relief, Seán. And overall?’
‘Well, obviously don’t hold me to it now, Éamon, but my lads think it’ll be around sixty-forty. Comfortable enough. I think we can safely say that by this time tomorrow night you’ll be our new President.’
And it will be over, Éamon thought. He couldn’t help but notice that regret was his instant and prevailing emotion on hearing Seán’s words, but he covered it well by immediately asking other practical questions.
‘Was the turnout good overall?’
‘Oh yes, so I’m told. Excellent considering… ah…’
Seán’s voice trailed off. Considering what? Éamon knew what the unspoken caveat was. Emigration. So many young men of voting age, women too, no longer living in the country to cast their vote. Gone to England and the States and wherever else. Éamon never believed the figure constantly thrown at him; not four hundred thousand nor anything like it. Never. That would be twenty-five per cent of the adult population. It couldn’t be as bad as that. Anyway, what had the other crowd done about it when they were in? Hadn’t it gone from bad to worse? Why did these lads and girls go off like that in their prime? Éamon, deep in his heart, felt that there was more than a hint of selfishness and disloyalty in their departure. Of course he was well aware that it was not acceptable politically for him to voice such an opinion, but nothing could convince him that there wasn’t decent work to be found here at home for many of them. Privately he wondered what cravings, what dissatisfactions sent these young people from their own land and families? How much money did anyone really need to be happy? It was a tragedy out and out. Still, at least most of those who stayed supported him. But was their vote today, in reality, a vote to move him along, nudge him on to the long acre? Was that what they really wanted?
Seán broke the silence. He spoke cheerfully, looking forward to tomorrow evening’s victory celebration. Though there was no awkwardness between them – they had soldiered together too long for that – something had changed nonetheless, and Éamon understood that it was irrevocable. As he put down the phone he noted that Seán did not end formally with Taoiseach, or even tribally with Chief.
‘Good night so, Éamon. Sleep well.’
His tea was now but lukewarm. A seannós lament quivered from the radio. He closed his eyes and tried to control and master his fear of what was to come. After so many years in charge, could he come to terms with no longer having the levers of power in his hands? When Seán and Kenneth had presented their new economic plan to him last year, his instinct had been to say no out of hand. He understood exactly what this plan meant and the very heart of him cried out against it. To open the economy, encourage businesses from the States and England and Europe to come here and give such people incentives to build factories, could only mean dilution of the National ideal, there was no two ways about it. And for what? Seán’s reply had been typically pithy.
‘Jobs. It’s all about jobs, Chief.’
But it wasn’t, of course it wasn’t. Surely Seán knew that there was so much else? Yet, somehow, on that day, Éamon discovered he no longer had the wherewithal to argue his case with the subtlety and certainty of old. Kenneth had, in his diffident, formal manner, posited the theory that this new strategy might allow many young people to come home and bring communities alive again. If he hoped this would convince his boss of the value of their plan, he misunderstood his man. Éamon had doubts about the attitudes and values these emigrants would carry home in their bags from years on the streets of London and New York. It might well be that these souls were lost already, culturally, morally; no longer Irish in any sense that he would care to define, and might never be again. They might even infect those who had stayed and so destroy the careful work of many years. What was it prevented him from voicing these thoughts aloud, even in private conference with his most trusted lieutenant and Kenneth, the most discreet of civil servants? Although that day he didn’t fully appreciate what was happening to him, Éamon understood now that it could only have been some unspoken realisation that power was seeping away from him. Was it age and nothing more? He had agreed to their plan but perhaps Seán, no fool, saw the elemental doubt behind his dim, downcast eyes.
Why was Seán Lemass, as true an Irish patriot as ever there was, less concerned about what forces would be unleashed once the world was invited in? Éamon was aware that all over Dublin these days, even here on elegant Cross Avenue, people were renting television sets and strapping ungainly aerials that stretched high above their chimneys, wavering uncertainly, desperate to catch the signals from BBC and th
e commercial channel. Thankfully most of the country beyond Dublin could not yet receive these signals. Éamon’s old eyes no longer allowed him to experience the full visual impact of these aerials, but the image in his mind’s eye was dreadful enough; to look up and, instead of the natural wonder of a Dublin sky, view a demented configuration of twisted metal bending in the wind was shocking to him. What were people in Dublin, at this very moment, watching? What images of the world were they receiving into their homes? What attitudes and pseudo-philosophies? He wouldn’t ever know precisely because he had no television, but he understood very clearly that whatever they were looking at was mediated through the language and values of Great Britain. Some of his younger ministers, Charles, Jack, even quiet Dr Pat, thought why not create our own television service, as was done with radio. Bring an Irish message to the people. If only it was as simple as that. Éamon could see, even if the younger generation of politicians could not, that television was a far more terrifying power. Were they just innocent about what this medium could do, or too confident of their power to control it?
Her hand caressed his shoulder, her voice soft now as a pillow.
‘Are you in your sleep, pet?’
He opened his eyes to show he was not asleep. How could he sleep tonight?
*
The contractions were much more frequent and painful but Ann didn’t mind that. This was pain she remembered from before and knew how it would end. Anyway, now she was safe in her narrow spotless white cubicle. Mr Carr, the gynaecologist, had been phoned as Ann requested and Mrs Lynch told her that he sent his best wishes and was standing by at a moment’s notice, if needed. Mrs Lynch smiled and told Ann she didn’t think there would be any need for Mr Carr to be bothering himself. Everything was going to be fine. Ann knew that now. The panic of a couple of hours ago and the terrors of the last few months had disappeared. It had been worth every penny she saved to have this peace of mind. Her baby would be fine. Everyone said Mrs Lynch was the best.
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