Unspoken

by Gerard Stembridge

  *

  The sense that history was being made was palpable, evident in the expressions on faces, in the way people moved and gestured, perhaps most of all in the restraint and seriousness of everyone’s speech; proper grammar studiously observed, sentence structure more complex and formal. Not so much as a mild obscenity had been heard all day. Even the floor managers were disconcertingly hushed and polite. Instead of the familiar booming pot-pourri of barked instructions and camp asides, there was a serenity of tone between production control and studio floor; all very businesslike. No one was dawdling. In the makeshift canteen set up in the Gresham Hotel’s Tara Suite, crew members wolfed their tea and Club Milks and got straight back to work. Some even used the break for little informal meetings, sorting out last-minute glitches and anticipating potential problems. On this special day no one was a passenger, there were no slackers in the system, everyone seemed utterly committed to the cause, from the director-general down to… but such a phrase did not apply. There was no high or low, up or down, in Teilifís Éireann. Such notions belonged to the past. The convention established among the entire staff of the new television service was first names only and casual attire. Status was of no account, only the product mattered: the images revealed, the words spoken, the stories the nation would tell itself. There was a feeling that, at 7 p.m. on this New Year’s Eve, the sixties would begin in Ireland. Only two years late – not bad by Irish standards, one producer had waggishly observed.

  In the Gresham Hotel a production team was in rehearsal for Teilifís Éireann’s first ever live programme, an outside broadcast to ring in the New Year. Inevitably, the huge importance of the occasion was creating some tension. At this moment, in the production van, the director and the vision mixer were locked in heated whispered consultation; should they cut to presenter Éamon Andrews in mid-shot or close-up? Down on set, waiting calmly for a resolution, cameraman and crew leader Baz Malloy had loftier matters on his mind: ‘We accept that a great painting or poem can bring about change, alter things irrevoceably, but we don’t seem to believe that television can.’

  His young camera team had grown used to musings of this sort from Baz during their training period. As usual, no one knew exactly how to respond. Young Joe on camera three made an effort.

  ‘Wasn’t there something, Baz, about Nixon losing the election last year on account of how he looked on television?’

  Even though Baz smiled and nodded he somehow managed to convey that Joe was missing his point by a country mile.

  ‘I believe so, but I was thinking more of the kind of relationship between Art and Life that Picasso had in mind when he replied to the Nazi officer who looked at his painting, Guernica, and asked, “Did you do this?” And Picasso fixed those fierce fierce eyes on the Nazi and replied, “No, you did.” … Now, what did Picasso mean? That the Nazis had inspired the work of art or that the work of art had transcended their violence?’ Baz paused for an answer. His camera crew knew the safest option was to nod knowingly. ‘And when you think about television and society –’

  ‘OK, camera two, get me a mid-shot on Éamon.’

  The voice of the director, Ed Loebwitz, intruding on their headphones, denied Baz’s crew the opportunity of hearing more of his thesis. Immediately they turned their attention back to live television.

  ‘Camera three, coming to you next, stand by with the group shot.’

  More than anything else, it was the remarkable voice of Ed Loebwitz, heard constantly ‘down the cans’, as the crew had learned to say, that reassured everyone involved that they really were making proper professional broadcast television. It was commanding, crisp, precise, assured, ironic, inspiring, decisive, badgering, bantering – with a timbre redolent of cigar smoke, hard liquor and layer upon layer of experience. Most significantly, amidst the cautious sing-song of Irish voices, he sounded American in that sidewalk-savvy, hard-boiled sense that inspired belief. Didn’t Americans know all about making television? A Yank voice giving orders was, somehow, acceptable in a way an English voice could never have been. ‘That would be too reminiscent of the yoke of oppression all over again’ had been Baz Malloy’s comment and for once his colleagues knew exactly what he meant. His trenchant view was that this new television service should be, above all, a joyous and confident expression of the independent Irish spirit. It was precisely this prospect that had lured him, at twenty-five, back from exile. Training as a studio cameraman in Granada Television, he had listened long enough to English directorial voices down his cans, ex-army chaps who marshalled their crews as if on manoeuvres; all that briskness, clippedness and, to his Irish ears, sheer sneeriness. It wore Baz down in the end. Sincerely grateful though he was for the undoubted technical precision of the training he had received at the Manchester studios in the craft of television camera operation, Baz’s spirit was languishing. The idea of returning home to witness, and perhaps even contribute to, what might be a transformative moment, brought tears to his eyes. Literally. Which, when it happened, had been vaguely embarrassing, though also, he told himself, quite beautiful in its small sudden way. He had shown Jarlath, the Galway barman in his Manchester local, the letter he was about to post enquiring about work in this new television service. Jarlath remarked that such a thing in Ireland, supposing it ever got going at all, would never pay as well as Granada, surely? It was while replying to this question that Baz had felt the uncontainable emotional surge. ‘Do you know, I’ve no idea, Jarlath. I hadn’t thought about that. It’s more this instinct I have that something, possibly something extraordinary, might be about to happen. And it might make a difference. Imagine, you know, if –’

  Baz had to stop speaking. He was overcome. Whether Jarlath noticed this, or not, was not evident from his next comment: ‘If you ask me nothing’ll ever change over in that fucken place.’

  But Baz believed otherwise. He believed that in Life, as in Art, the tiniest adjustment sometimes made the decisive difference. He saw in his own craft how even a subtle crabbing movement could change the emphasis in a frame and, with it, the emotional resonance of the scene. In the choice between a high or low angle lay the expression of quite different world views. Why should sudden unlikely change not be possible, at least? And wouldn’t those present to experience such moments become the fortunate few? So now, as Baz practised an intricate little tracking move on the slightly uncertain Gresham Hotel floor, he thought of poor old depressed Jarlath, and was glad that he hadn’t allowed emigrant cynicism to deflect him. Despite the dodgy surface, Baz’s camera flowed like honey and came to land perfectly on its mark.

  ‘That was a doozie, Bazman. Can you repeat that when we go live?’

  ‘Well, I’ll make a good stab at it, Ed. It’ll be a reasonable facsimile.’

  ‘Jesus, can’t you guys ever just say yes or no?’

  ‘Did I ever tell you Ed, there’s no word in Gaelic for either? We’re wary of certainties.’

  ‘OK, maestro, are we all happy bunnies?’

  Gavin Bloom’s voice intruded. It had the quality, very useful for a floor manager, of being able to impose itself effortlessly on any babble. Having timed his interruption precisely, he took control.

  ‘Because, if we’re thrilled to bits with item nine, we should crack on. Time and tide and so on, Ed, dearheart.’

  There were some, including Gavin Bloom himself, who wondered by what miracle he had been chosen to floor-manage the first live broadcast ever in Ireland. Yet here he was, cool as all get out, cheekily hinting to Ed Loebwitz, his mentor, teacher, the God of his training course, the man who introduced him to the phrase, ‘I don’t want it good, I want it now,’ that they just might need to get the fuck on with it, as Ed himself would say. Six months ago Gavin Bloom had been a trainee stage manager at the Gate Theatre. It was, as he often said in sly reference to the Gate’s loudly proclaimed dedication to the spirit of Oscar Wilde, a position of no importance. Hilton Edwards himself had encouraged him to apply for this job in the new television
service, promising to put a word in for him. ‘My dear darling boy, you were created for this kind of work.’ As so often with Hilton it was impossible to know whether his remark was intended as a compliment or an insult. He may have detected in Gavin talents which, he divined, only the singular challenges of television production could reveal, or it may have been just an easy way of getting rid of him from the Gate without appearing cruel.

  ‘Of course I’m happy with item nine, Gavin. The question is, are you ready to rehearse item ten?’

  From the moment he first put on a pair of headphones and heard Ed Loebwitz’s masterful growl, something in Gavin Bloom’s confused failed world began to make sense. As a badly paid, sometimes not paid at all, theatre dogsbody he had shocked himself, and many others, with the discovery that, at twenty-four, he was about to become a father, but had surprised nobody by his inability to offer much to mother and child beyond good intentions and perpetual apologies. But as he progressed through this training course in TV floor-management, everything seemed to change. When it ended he was offered a secure, responsible, permanent, well-paid, pensionable and much sought-after job in the new national television service. Of course the Gavin Bloom everyone knew would have very quickly found a way to destroy such good fortune but, luckily, he had already discovered something extraordinary. Whatever it was made the perfect floor manager, he had it. Friends wondered was it because he was a stickler for time-keeping and enjoyed acting the cissy. Although both these qualities were useful for the job, it was actually the aspect of his personality with which he was most uncomfortable that became his greatest asset in this new profession. Gavin Bloom always put himself forward; he loved being out in front, leading the charge, rousing others to action. As his mother always said, he was ‘flamboyant’. But at the same time he was incapable of making decisions. He envied people like Hilton and Ed their insouciance, their outspoken self-belief. He could never run the whole operation as they did and yet he was too brash to lurk in the shadows. But in floor-management this defect, as he had always considered it, was actually a prize attribute. When a tetchy director bellowed down the cans, ‘Tell him do it again and this time shove a grenade up his ass,’ Gavin would relay the director’s message in his own special way: ‘He loved it, absolutely loved it. But it would make him even more ecstatic if he saw more of those gorgeous teeth of yours. More of the smile and more smile in the voice as well, dearheart.’ Presenters and performers loved having him around. Directors trusted him. Gavin Bloom, young waster, fish out of water, hopeless parent, had found a home of sorts on the studio floor.

  Perhaps if he were to pause, at this moment, on this particular day and look around at the large crew and the distinguished presenter and all those tables dressed for important guests and all the forbidding hardware that was part and parcel of a big television production and the terrifyingly long running order in his hand, a chunk of it as yet unrehearsed and then think of the viewing audience, all over the country, excited beyond logic, waiting to turn on their little box for the first time and experience what was, after all, the most dramatic event in Irish life since… Gavin searched for parallels: Ronnie Delaney won the gold in Melbourne, Michael Collins signed the Treaty, Pearse read out the Proclamation in 1916 – he was on a roll now – Brian Boru won the Battle of Clontarf! If Gavin were to pause and consider the extent of his role and responsibility in making all this come together, it might well be that the dizzy old queen act, which was such a part of his performance and his charm, would take over and send him scampering, screaming, from the set. That indeed might have been Gavin Bloom in the past. But, for whatever reason, it was no longer so. Right now, with the clock ticking relentlessly towards the 7 p.m. transmission time, and everyone on set awaiting the result of his little exchange with the director, Gavin just nodded calmly, ticked item nine on his running order, said, ‘Check,’ sashayed over to the podium area, the better to command attention, and waved a languid hand towards nothing in particular. ‘Maestro Ed is happy. We’re moving on. Rehearsing item ten, my darlings, positions please.’

  And everyone set to work.

  *

  Mr Humphries had delivered six extra pan loaves. Ritchie was cutting and Marian was buttering. Ann had to keep telling her not to put too much on. By the looks of it there was going to be enough sandwiches to feed an army. She had bought four pounds of Galtee, two pounds of sliced corned beef and, for the men, a pound of sliced ham. Earlier on Bernadette arrived with a big tray piled high with sandwiches, and Una sent her eldest over with two bags of sandwiches done up in greaseproof paper. On top of all this, Fonsie’s sister Marg Crowley had promised Ann that she’d make a few griddle cakes and bring them with her when she was coming. Gussie had been sent to Curtin’s for salad cream. She hated buying anything from those robbers but what could she do at the last minute on a New Year’s Eve? In the middle of it all Mona sailed in from town with a bought cake from Keane’s and sat down with no notion of offering to help, but every intention of gossiping.

  ‘The house is very quiet. Where’s Francis?’

  Ann deliberately kept on the move as she answered, ‘He’s over at Mary Storan’s. She said she’d take him so I’d have a bit of peace to get everything ready for the party.’

  The hint went right over Mona’s head.

  ‘Isn’t she very good? Can she keep him quiet?’

  ‘Oh sure, he’s like an angel with her. Sorry, I haven’t even time to make you a cup of tea Mona, I’m up to my eyes.’

  ‘You’re grand. Ritchie! Put the kettle on for your mother and me, would you?’

  It was all Ann could do not to tell Mona that Ritchie was too busy to be making tea, but she would never speak like that to her sister in front of the children, so she bit her lip and continued pulling furniture around to try and create more space in the back room. One of the things about the new house that drove her mad was that the corporation had built them with three pokey rooms downstairs when they’d have been much better off with two decent-sized ones. None of them was big enough for a party crowd. As Ann dragged the big table into a corner, Mona relayed every detail of who she met on her procession around the town, what they were wearing and what was said. When Ritchie brought the tea, Ann said she was grand, tea was the last thing on her mind at that moment. Mona sat, enjoying hers. She complimented Ritchie and Marian on helping their mother and asked had Gussie dodged off as usual. Speak of the devil. They all heard Gussie before they saw him. ‘Mam, Mam!’ He ran in and slammed the salad cream on the table, breathless, but that didn’t shut him up. ‘You said no one around here had a television.’ Gussie had been on and on at his mother about getting a television since he heard about the new Irish station starting up.

  ‘Gussie, I’ve no time for you now.’

  It seemed Gussie and his Aunt Mona had one thing in common at least – neither could take a hint. He talked on as if Ann had not spoken.

  ‘Dwans have one, I just saw it.’

  ‘How could you see it? They live in an upstairs flat.’

  ‘Come here, look.’

  ‘Gussie, I told you, I’m up to my eyes. I’ve no time for your antics.’

  Gussie was already at the front door, looking out and pointing.

  ‘No, look, just for a sec.’

  Ritchie and Marian couldn’t resist going to see whatever it was had Gussie so excited. Ann looked at Mona, who threw her eyes to heaven. She hadn’t the slightest intention of budging from her chair.

  ‘Ignore him, Ann. That’s the only way.’

  ‘He’s right, Mam, c’mere, look.’

  Now Ritchie seemed to be caught up in Gussie’s excitement, Ann decided she’d better take a look. ‘Get in out of the rain for God’s sake.’ They all crowded around the doorway and stretched their heads out. Ritchie and Gussie were gone so tall she had to push them out of her way to see what all the hysteria was about. She had no intention of getting wet herself so she only barely stuck her head out the door. Gussie pointed. Ann squinted.r />
  ‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’

  ‘Look at the Dwans’ roof. See what’s tied to the chimney?’

  How could she have missed it, the size of it, rising high against the mucky sky? A big grey metal H.

  ‘See. It’s an aerial.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So that means they have a television.’

  ‘Just because they have an aerial doesn’t mean they have a television.’

  With that Ann walked away. She wasn’t going to let Gussie get the better of her on this one.

  ‘But that’s stupid.’

  ‘Don’t be so cheeky to your mother.’

  Ann knew Gussie would pay no attention to his aunt.

  ‘Why would you have a television aerial if you didn’t have a television?’

  ‘To show off. Maybe they’re just pretending they have a television.’

  She had the rare satisfaction of shutting Gussie up. For about three seconds.

  ‘I bet they rented one.’