‘Ohhhhhh! I’ll put a bunion on his Spanish onion, when I catch him bending tonight.’
‘Olé!’
‘Good man Fonsie.’ ‘I love that one.’ Fonsie sat down, his shy smile wide.
1962
Five: January 1st
Two hours into the new year, Gavin Bloom was wandering aimlessly around the packed function room. He felt oddly empty, disconnected from the party atmosphere, too exhausted to dance and too restless to sit and relax. In the midst of all this drunken happiness he felt somehow unnecessary. Perhaps that was why he was so quick to get involved when, wandering towards the bar, he saw a drunk man in a gorgeously tailored tuxedo swing a slow fist at Baz Malloy’s chin.
Baz had been sitting near the bar with his young camera crew enjoying a few calm aftershow drinks. Because he was the only one who had ever worked on live television before, he felt particularly proud of what his boys, Joe, Murph, Mick and Eoin had achieved, especially when, after the broadcast ended, director Ed Loebwitz bestowed on them his most extravagant accolade: ‘A clean show, guys.’ Baz enjoyed the dry humour of the understatement even though he tended to be more lyrically inclined when describing the night’s work. To witness a live television camera crew working in unison was, he said, to experience a silent ballet of great precision and beauty, whose artistry was all the more pure because the performance was unseen and unheralded by the viewing public. Its sole purpose was to make those in front of camera look good. The crew still slagged Baz whenever he spoke in these terms, but that only encouraged him to express himself even more hyperbolically. He was amusedly aware that when he first arrived back from Manchester many of his new colleagues in TÉ assumed, from his vocabulary and physical demeanour that he must be queer, but his technical virtuosity quickly won their respect; indeed, in the case of some young cameramen, awe bordering on adoration. Nothing pleased Baz more than the fact that, nearly two hours after the end of transmission, his younger colleagues were still consumed with the pride of their achievement. The crew relived the broadcast as a series of complex behind-the-scenes moves and adjustments, of minor mishaps, near disasters and triumphant details. There was the moment when fat Tommy, the cabler, had to go down on his stomach and wriggle along the floor so he could reach out and snatch away a cable before a disastrous collision with Eoin’s camera pedestal. Even better was the moment when the boom mike nearly whacked Baz on the head as it panned round at speed. His camera was on-air at that moment and he was in the middle of a difficult pivot, so he didn’t see it flying towards him, but luckily he spotted and correctly interpreted Gavin Bloom’s frantic hand-warning just in time and somehow managed to duck down and pop back up without interrupting the flow of his camera move. The rest of the crew assured Baz that it was like something out of Buster Keaton. They were still laughing when the stranger spoke to them. He was dark eyed, wearing a monkey suit so expensive and well cut, it might have made him look elegant if he wasn’t having so much trouble staying upright.
‘Are you all right for a drink there, lads? Great job tonight. Have to hand it to you. Top class. The BBC couldn’t have done it better. What’ll you have?’
Baz answered for everyone. Decisively. ‘No, we’re fine.’ The man in the stylish monkey suit pulled a wad of notes out of his pocket and gestured to the barman. ‘Ah, come on, seriously, what’ll you have?’ Baz shook his head and raised an eye to the others. Did anyone know who this fellow was? He obviously felt himself important enough to issue compliments and buy drink. Someone from the Broadcasting Authority? Baz was taken by surprise when the man suddenly lurched towards him. His whiskey breath was now well in range.
‘Here’s my question. Will it change things, lads? Television I mean. ’Cause we have to get the fucken place moving, don’t we? And we’re doing our best but, you know, it can’t be left up to us to do everything, yeah? I mean, fair’s fair.’
‘We’ and ‘us’ seemed to confirm that the man was someone of importance in Teilifís Éireann, but to Baz he was just an annoying drunk.
‘You’re right, fair’s fair. All we want is to do the work and then be left in peace to enjoy a nice quiet drink. All right?’
The Drunk lurched closer, staring at Baz. Now, almost eyelash to eyelash, his breath was lacerating. Apart from feeling a touch nauseous, this was the first time it occurred to Baz that he might be in some kind of physical danger. Just as he saw the approaching fist, the man seemed to stumble backwards, and there was Gavin Bloom holding him by the shoulders and laughing.
‘Mind yourself there.’
It was only after he dragged the man back that Gavin got a close look at the face and realised who he was. Having heard so many outrageous stories about Dom, especially where drink was involved, he knew, from the glitter of aggression still in his eyes, that a brawl was not yet out of the question. Baz and his boys looked like they might be up for it too. Gavin adopted his most jocular peacemaking tone.
‘Lucky I caught you. Imagine if we had a distinguished member of the government doing himself an injury, tonight of all nights.’
He looked directly at Baz as he said ‘member of the government’. Just to make sure his colleague got the message.
‘I don’t know if you had a chance to introduce yourself to our number one cameraman, Baz Molloy. I hate to embarrass him because he’s very modest, but you should know Baz left a big job with Granada Television just to come back home and work with us.’
Gavin was relieved to see Dom attempt a smile.
‘Oh. I see. One of our returned emigrants?’
‘Exactly. Determined to help the Nation in its hour of need, aren’t you Baz?’
Baz couldn’t help being impressed at how quickly the Drunk could switch from street gutty to slurred but genial party host.
‘Well, welcome home. There you go. You’re proof my friend… proof that, thanks to our policies, the national landscape is changing. And now television will change things even more. You’ve probably seen this happen in England already.’
Knowing that the Drunk was an important politician only encouraged Baz to keep needling.
‘That’s true. Thanks to television everyone now knows what a terrible government they have and can’t wait to get rid of them.’
The Drunk’s answering chuckle was neither warm or sincere. Baz saw rage flash once more across his eyes and prepared to shield himself from a flying fist or even a head-butt. Instead, the Drunk’s hand merely stretched out to pick up his whiskey and polish it off before replying in a self-consciously jokey tone.
‘Ha ha, very good, yeah. Very nicely put. Touché. But you see, the point about that is, the Tories are mired in the past. They don’t know how to use television. Unlike Kennedy, for example. He knows what it’s all about. The political party that has someone who can shine on camera like Kennedy is the party that will own the future, aren’t I right?’
‘And would you be like Kennedy, by any chance?’
‘We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?’
Even though the answer was politely spoken Baz sensed he was just one sneering remark away from that head-butt. Or a kick in the balls. Gavin had the same feeling and interrupted quickly.
‘Well, my colleagues and myself will always do our best to make everyone look good on camera.’
Dom smiled, stared, licked his upper lip slowly, then picked up a fresh drink.
‘I look forward to that.’
After he lurched off. Gavin shook his head at Baz.
‘That was very bold. You enjoyed giving him the lash, I could tell. Have you a notion how notorious he is?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘A brilliant man by all accounts, but desperate in drink. Oh, and look – see the divine creature he’s after falling against? That’s his missus. And the little lizardy fellah she’s dancing with, now surely you know him – what?’
‘As you said yourself, I’m a recently returned emigrant. These gombeen men mean nothing to me.’
‘Ah w
ell, to be fair now dearheart, these particular guys are a cut above gombeen men. They’re more – oops! and down we go.’
Dom had keeled over.
Baz, a little repelled, couldn’t help watching as the little lizard man and the divine woman tried to get the Drunk back on his feet. She grabbed him as if he was a bold child and started brushing his expensive suit with her free hand. He pulled away roughly, executed his own little pas de chat and fell again, laughing.
‘So, that’s the hope of the nation,’ said Baz and went back to his pint.
*
Francis woke. It was not the noise of the party that woke him, nor Martin’s little snores. Francis woke at some time every night. If they forgot to close up his cot he could climb out and trot into the other room and creep in between his mother and father. Sometimes they let him stay and he would wake there in the morning. Sometimes he heard his mother’s voice tell his father to bring him back, and his father would carry him to his cot. On other nights when he woke, he would kick away the blankets, get to his knees, and then stand up, tall enough now to lean on the side of the cot. On these nights he just stood silently until his eyes got used to the dark and he could see what he already knew was there; two beds, the big bed with the shapes of Ritchie and Gussie, and the small bed with the shape of Martin. Sometimes he could see a face. He listened to his brothers breathing. He could stand looking and listening for a long time. This night, as soon as he woke, he knew it was different. It was dark, yes and he was in bed and Martin was in bed, but the big bed was empty. Where were his big brothers Ritchie and Gussie? He could see the sky outside. He could hear things outside as well. Francis knew a lot of words now, like ‘bed’, ‘sleep’, ‘dark’, ‘night’, but he didn’t have words for what he heard now. He was still too young to say ‘singing’ or ‘voices’. And ‘bells’, even though he heard them every day. Sometimes he imitated their sound – ‘Bong!’ There were so many words he didn’t know yet. Every day he heard more and more and more from his mother and father and brothers and sisters and everyone. Then at night it all stopped. But not tonight. Why was that? Francis looked at Martin asleep and listened to all the cheerful voices singing outside. He didn’t cry. He didn’t mind being alone and silent. Listening.
1963
Six: November 20th
Michael Liston’s facial expression was permanently sour and people found his manner unsympathetic but, as far as Dom was concerned, any man who’d suffered the tragedy of losing his wife in childbirth and had to bring up three kids on his own deserved to be cut a bit of slack if he wasn’t always the life and soul. He wouldn’t win many votes if he ever ran for election, but Dom found him a loyal and useful backroom boy. His advice was usually worth listening to and, right now, Dom needed a sensible, sympathetic ear. In his car, on their way to the meeting, Michael Liston didn’t interrupt as Dom told him the whole story. Or, at least, as much of it as he could remember.
‘You see the problem was, it wasn’t me driving at all, really. My old friend Dummy had taken possession of the wheel, laughing probably, mad eyes on him. I swear Michael, the first thing I knew about it was when I recovered consciousness and found myself looking through a cracked windscreen at what appeared to be the inside of some class of a shop. Then I noticed a trickle of blood on my cheek but I wasn’t feeling any pain. That came later. Oh Christ, yes! A migraine that made me want to chop my head off to get a bit of relief. But at that moment, no pain. Dummy. I’m thinking, what hole are you after landing me in this time? Now I should say that, as far as the shop and the damage was concerned, that was all sorted out the next day before I came home. I made sure to meet the owner personally, migraine or no migraine. One of God’s gentlemen. He recognised me all right but, once he saw I was speaking to him very much from a kneeling position and waving a chequebook in his direction, he was more than happy to abandon any notion of causing trouble. It could happen to the best of us, was his fine broadminded Dubliner’s view as I put my signature to the agreed figure. So that part is all grand. No complications there at all. No… my concern is more this little niggle I have in the back of my mind. I mean, it mightn’t be a problem at all. It’s just, as I say, a little niggle about my encounter with the Garda who arrived on the scene.’
Dom went silent as he tried again to recall exactly what had taken place. Michael Liston waited.
‘You see, I can’t really remember what was said. That’s what worries me. If my Garda friend spoke to Dummy rather than Dom, Christ only knows what exchanges might have occurred, as they say. I’ve tried to recall, you know, what was the general atmosphere. Was it, you know, cordial or…’
Dom gestured helplessly. Michael supplied the euphemism.
‘Strained?’
‘Well, yes. The trouble is, something tells me it might have been. I think. Look, I can’t be sure.’
‘But you’re not worried he’ll bring charges?’
Dom laughed spontaneously at that. Michael joined in.
‘Ah no, nothing like that. Just… you know the way word goes around. I’d prefer if Lemass didn’t get to hear about the incident at all. Wouldn’t look good, would it?’
‘Should be easy enough to find out where this Garda is stationed up in Dublin and have a quiet word if need be. You want me to do that?’
This was exactly what Dom hoped Michael would say. Had it been a local Garda this would not be an issue, they wouldn’t even be talking about it. The fact that it happened in Dublin was the only slightly unsettling element. Better if Michael took care of it. Dom nodded and left it at that. He was probably worrying unnecessarily.
This morning they were meeting a builder-man at the new Inter-Continental hotel, which had opened in the town just in time for the Kennedy visit a few months before. Dom didn’t know the man but according to Michael he had a proposal that was bold and forward-thinking. Builder-man lived in Birmingham and intended travelling on the overnight ferry to Rosslare and then driving to the hotel. As they turned into the parking area Dom spotted a dark green Wolseley with English number plates and a dirty big Irish head behind the wheel. ‘It that our man? Fill me in quick. What’s his name again?’
‘Gabriel Guiney. Emigrated from Annascaul in the forties and worked his way up from labourer to builder to sole director of Guiney Developments. Doing plenty of business in the Birmingham area. Lots of big housing contracts. Told me when he saw Lemass on the front cover of Time he figured maybe he should be taking a look at what was going on back home.’
‘And he’s one of our own, you say?’
‘Well, he’s been in England for twenty years but his late father was dyed-in-the-wool. Canvassed for Tom McEllistrim in North Kerry all his life.’
‘Can’t say fairer than that.’
As they got out of the car Michael suggested to Dom that Guiney might be more at ease if, instead of having the pow-wow in the busy hotel lobby where every dog and divil passing would notice them, he might talk more freely if they went for a stroll in the fresh air along the riverbank. A bit more discreet all round. When the suggestion was put to Guiney, a nod indicated that this idea was acceptable. Michael said he’d go for a pot of tea and leave them to it.
As soon as they reached the path along the river Dom tried to get the ball rolling with a bit of banter about Kerry football and was rewarded with another nod. His comments on British cars in general and Wolseleys in particular elicited no more than a couple of grunts. Dom, his heart beginning to thump out a warning rhythm, cast about frantically for any subject that might excite a response from the other man; emigration, the sights of London, showbands, building sites. Finally, when he heard himself rhapsodising about the beauty of the river on this unusually golden winter morning, Dom knew it was way past the time to shut up. He began to wonder if Guiney intended to make any verbal contribution at all to this encounter. He could not fathom why the man he was increasingly thinking of as ‘this Kerry hoor’ wanted to meet him if he wasn’t going to open his mouth. His demeanour seeme
d typical of a certain breed of Irish emigrant. Years spent in the fleshpots of London, Birmingham and Manchester had not added so much as a whiff of urbanity to his stunted personality, but merely deepened and solidified his peasant spirit. Surely success in business and, from what Michael had whispered, considerable prosperity, ought to have taken some of the Kerry muck-savage out of the man? Apparently not. It hadn’t even improved his dress sense, which had the look of a farm labourer uneasily encased in his Sunday best. If his three-litre Wolseley spoke of wealth it did so only in a wary whisper; a car that took care not to announce itself. No flash Jags or Bentleys for this son of Annascaul. Still, Dom respected Michael Liston’s opinion and his impression was that the man had an ambitious plan to transform the landscape of the city in a way that could create a lot of jobs and homes for thousands of future grateful voters. Dom only wished the Kerry hoor would show some sign of getting down to business so that he could call a much-needed halt to his own babbling. He was getting a pain in his chest from the stress of it.
They had begun to run out of pathway. Only meadowgrass, reeds and water remained in front of them. The edge of the city. Beyond the marshlands, just out of sight, Shannon Airport. More than anything, right now Dom needed a drink which, given his recent misadventure, was probably not a good idea. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe that was why wily Michael had suggested the walk by the river. Was it his way of keeping Dom away from the temptations of the hotel bar?
Without warning, Guiney opened his mouth and spoke. Not a grunt or a mumble but full sentences which, to Dom’s surprise, developed into quite a sustained monologue. Despite what seemed like conscious efforts on the part of the old emigrant to hammer his accent into some harder, flatter, duller shape, it retained a surprising amount of its natural Kerry music. The effect was curious: like a star tenor trying not to stand out in a chorus of amateurs.
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