Mr Schneider, the German man who talked to him, was a football fan too and supported Shalke 04 because he grew up in that part of Germany. He shook Ritchie’s hand and said they would write to him soon. Though his mam kept asking him afterwards, he hadn’t a notion if he had a chance or not. Mr Schneider had said nothing that gave away anything. Not like MacNamara down at the joinery, who had kept saying, ‘You’re just the sort of youngfellah we need,’ and ‘I’d say we can fix you up all right.’ Then Ritchie heard nothing for ages until his Aunt Mona told his mam that the son of a friend of MacNamara’s had got the position. ‘Sure that’s how it works Ann. It’s all pull.’ At least Krups did what they promised. Today, four weeks after his interview, here was the letter. Ritchie was afraid to look at it. Now he saw his mam coming in with the basket of sheets. She looked really happy. So did that mean that it was good news? Ritchie knew there was nothing she wanted more than to see him settled in a good trade. So maybe it was good news? Now Ritchie was glad his mam had opened the letter. He could hear her in the scullery, humming. She sounded in great form. Next thing she came out into the hall.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You’re after giving me an awful fright. Why didn’t you tell me you were home?’
Ritchie saw her look at the envelope in his hand. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face. Ritchie was sure now it was good news.
‘Well, did you read it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, go on so.’
Ritchie felt annoyed again, for just a second, that his mam didn’t even mention that she’d opened his letter, let alone apologise. Then he made himself forget about that. He pulled out the sheet of paper and opened it. The letter was only two sentences. It started ‘Dear Mr Strong’. Ritchie had never been called Mr Strong before, except in a sarcastic way by some of his teachers.
Dear Mr Strong,
We wish to offer you a position as apprentice machinist beginning work on Monday Oct. 19th 1964. Please confirm by Wednesday Oct. 14th, at the latest, that you wish to accept the offer.
That was all. The signature was a squiggle but below was typed:
M. Schneider
Head of Personnel
Ritchie looked at his mam and he thought her eyes were a bit watery. Was she going to cry? He had never seen her crying.
‘Now, love. Isn’t that great news? All my prayers to St Joseph the worker. I told you. Krups! You won’t do better than Krups.’
Then she reached out and hugged him. Ritchie thought this day was one of the best days. His mam smelled of washing. Then he got a whiff from under his arm. He needed to scrub himself really hard.
Afterwards, sitting on the side of the bed drying himself, he thought of something that made him feel even better. If he was starting work on Monday week, then he would get his first real pay packet the next Friday. He knew that, as an apprentice, it wouldn’t be much, but it was guaranteed, every Friday as long as he did his work right and kept his job. And he would be paid more after a year and more the next year and so on and so on until he qualified in four years’ time. It was nice knowing what was ahead. He opened a drawer in the dressing table and took out a small box. He got a key out of his pocket, opened the box and looked at the money inside; a pound note, a ten-shilling note and some silver. He took out a half crown. In case he got off with Gretta Lehane tonight.
1965
Nine: March 20th
Eyes never look old. Sitting deep in their ruffled bed of skin, the Taoiseach’s eyes were as alert and knowing as when he was a twenty-year-old sitting in the first Dáil back in 1919. But, Dom thought, now there was greater wisdom, understanding. And sadness. The question he’s just asked allows for no avoidance or circumlocution. The answer can only be I will or I won’t. Dom accepted the Taoiseach was right to put it to him so clearly, of course. It had been coming a long time. Subtle hints had not worked.
Mea culpa, Boss.
Was it Lemass had sorted the court case? Dom would love to know. He’d never tell, of course, not even with the tiniest quiver of an eye or crinkle about the corner of the mouth would there be the slightest indication. Not even now with the two of them sitting securely alone. In a way it was the greatness of the man. That’s why he loved him and wanted his forgiveness so much. The day he was born, Lemass was already out there fighting for Ireland’s freedom. Dom would do anything to serve him. He wanted to shout at him, ‘For Christ’s, sake put me out in the front line. Please! I’ll bite legs for you, by Jesus I will. I’ll send those pampered Blueshirts limping back to the law library whining like wounded pups if you’d only give me the chance.’ Of course, maybe Lemass would have done exactly that long ago if only Dom’s drunken antics didn’t keep preventing it. It was hard to explain that the man who got up to so much mischief wasn’t really Dom, it was Dummy. Dummy, the dangerous lunatic who erupted out of him at certain moments when Dom was off his guard. Dummy caused all the serious trouble.
Lemass was an intelligent man, a subtle man. He hadn’t spoken in generalisations, telling him to cop on or get his act together or prove his loyalty. No, he had just asked for this one specific thing. Promising the world was easy, promising faithfully to do one thing was hard. Could Dom honestly reply with a yes? Maybe there was a good side to the fact that he was being issued with an ultimatum right now at the start of the general election campaign. It meant the Taoiseach saw him as still in the game. If he was washing his hands of him, this meeting wouldn’t be happening. The question wouldn’t have been asked at all. Dom looked straight at Lemass, who seemed content to wait patiently for an answer. He desperately wanted to calm his brain and order his wild thoughts. Sometimes he wished he could just say out loud precisely what he meant.
‘You’re wondering, Taoiseach, can I answer yes truthfully? Truthfully, not just convincingly. Jesus, I can say it easily enough, but can I stick with it? Let me explain how things happen. The first few sips and the night is alive, the laughter is loud and the women are beautiful. Then, as I knock them back, a phantom hand flicks the switch and Dummy sidles up beside me, whispering, “Let’s make mischief.” If only I could control that switch. Why is it that as long as the last drink has done me no harm I think the next one won’t either. Like in the Coffee Dock, when was it? Was it the night of Kennedy’s funeral, that far back? I was flying it until Charlie pulled that PR one into the gents to try and ride her and left me trapped on my own with Hanley who, of course, insisted on telling me about his latest column. In detail. I ordered another round and played the usual little Hanley game, feeding his ego with bon mots and Dáil corridor gossip. More drink, more Hanley. Trapped on my own with a self-obsessed, self-important, self-righteous, self-loathing peasant intellectual, it really would have been no fault of mine if Dummy had made his appearance at this juncture. But somehow I just about stayed on the sunny side of the street. Hanley never realised how narrowly his fat nose had escaped the caress of my fist. Charlie finally returned and I’d love to able to describe to you, Taoiseach, the look of satiety on your son-in-law’s lizard face, but that isn’t what you want to hear from me right now, is it? And of course he had to gild the lily by spreading out his legs and adjusting the crotch of his trousers as he sat down as if to suggest that his mickey was so red raw he had to avoid the unpleasant sensation of mohair tickling it. It was only then that Hanley realised what shenanigans had just taken place in this classy Dublin 4 men’s convenience. Well! The excitement of being in on this latest bit of ministerial scallywaggery as good as gave him a horn. He squealed like a tickled pig when Charlie ordered a bottle of Krug to be sent to the table of the Lady in Question. Even as I ordered something extra large I should have known that this would the one to send me off the deep end, but you see, that’s the mystery of it. With the benefit of hindsight it all seems so obvious. Thinking about it now, Taoiseach, here in the solemnity of your office, with the spring sunlight warming me and those wise eyes coolly awaiting my reply, of course I know exactly what particular moment intermingled
with what particular Jameson and ice to cry havoc. It was the gall of Charlie. It was the way he turned casually to Hanley, having picked up on the tiny part of the tail-end of a very long sentence that he happened to hear as he returned from his tryst, and then have the brass neck to comment on it, opine when he had not endured, as I had, Hanley’s insufferable pontificating. Oh yes! That was the final straw. I drained my glass and there was Dummy, his arm on my shoulder, not yet roaring at this stage, just scanning impatiently for a waiter to supply his urgent needs and quietly enumerating all the things that got his goat. The dull look of satiated pleasure on Charlie’s lizard puss, for one. Hanley’s lumpen head, for two. Dummy considered whacking it into some more attractive or, at least, acceptable shape. Where the fuck was that waiter? Unfortunately the Abbey Actor who brushed against Dummy at that moment and made an amusingly cantankerous remark got his timing all wrong; not, by all accounts, for the first time. He didn’t know what hit him, big an’ all as he was. I realise now of course – hindsight again – that the unfortunate man was not to know that what had got up Dummy’s nose had nothing to do with him at all. Mea culpa. Mea culpa. And another mess to be sorted out. I was surprised, to be honest, that the man remembered the incident the following morning. From my intermittant forays to the Abbey, it seemed to me the actor in question often had trouble remembering even his own lines. It stuck in my gullet that they had to get that sanctimonious old Presbyterian prick Blythe to intercede on my behalf. Was your hand in that too, Taoiseach? I really wanted to say nay to that, but what are called wiser councils prevailed. To be fair, it wasn’t that big of a settlement in the end but I accept that if I’d said sorry at the time and bought the old ham a drink it would have been a lot cheaper. My fault again, sir.’
Dom steadied his thoughts, hoping that his silence hadn’t become embarrassing. How long had it been since Lemass asked the hard question? Only seconds, hopefully. Dom did not want to seem hesitant. He wanted his answer to sound determined and sincere.
‘I will do it, Taoiseach. I will stop drinking. Entirely.’
*
It was eight o’clock and, though still not quite dark, there were no children playing on the green or anywhere on Rowan Avenue, which was very unusual for a Saturday evening. There were no mothers out chatting. Even Mrs Canty was not leaning out of the window of her upstairs flat surveying the goings-on below and calling out greetings to any of her neighbours who passed by. The street and the green were empty and silent. Everyone was inside watching television. The Eurovision Song Contest was on.
Fonsie liked the fanfare that began the programme and thought the trumpets’ tone was very pure and uplifting. When the presenter came out, smiling, Ann said she was a lovely looking girl but why had she cut her hair so short and that necklace was just ridiculous, much too old for her. The presenter said welcome to Naples in three different languages. Ritchie thought she had a really sexy voice. Gussie thought it must be because the programme was transmitted live by satellite that she sounded so crackly and far away. Marian was already starting to feel nervous for Butch Moore. Did he know the whole of Ireland was waiting to hear him sing? Marian would just die if she had to do that. Martin laid his head happily on his mam’s shoulder. He loved it when the whole family sat down together like this to watch television. It was like a party. Francis sat on the floor at the end of the couch, half hiding behind Ritchie’s legs. He did this because he thought if he kept out of the way and said nothing, his dad might forget that he was only allowed stay up until after the Irish song.
Ann said the presenter had a beautiful speaking voice, and she must be very well educated, the way she could switch from her own language to English or French without even thinking about it. Listening to her talk about the huge television audience, not only in the eighteen countries taking part, but in other places too, Fonsie suddenly felt very proud that Ireland was involved and that, by sitting down together, the whole family was part of this big occasion. He hoped that Butch Moore wouldn’t let them down. Ann seemed to read his mind.
‘I hope Butch doesn’t get too nervous.’
Marian leapt to Butch’s defence, remembering something she had read in New Spotlight magazine.
‘Of course he won’t. He’s always really relaxed and smiling and friendly.’
‘I’d say we’ll come last.’
Fonsie wondered why Gussie always had to try and cause a row. Marian would be better off ignoring him instead of rising to the bait.
‘We won’t come last.’
‘Well, we’ll see.’
‘Yes, we’ll see.’
‘Remember who said it first, when it happens.’
‘Except it won’t happen.’
Marian hadn’t really been a fan of Butch Moore until recently. Even now, if she had to choose, she would have to admit that Gene Pitney was still her favourite. But Gene wasn’t Irish and he wasn’t Ireland’s first ever representative in the Eurovision Song Contest and Butch Moore really was good looking and his smile was lovely and the more often Marian heard his song, the more she liked it.
The presenter said that the order of singers had been decided by drawing the names out of a hat and Ireland was fourth. That made Francis very sad. He knew now that if his dad really made him go to bed straight after Butch Moore, then he would miss most of the contest. When the first singer was introduced Martin asked where was the Netherlands and Ritchie told him it was where Holland was. Francis wanted to ask how could Holland and Netherlands both be in the same place but then he remembered to say nothing and not draw any attention to himself. The British song came after the Netherlands. Everyone knew it already from the radio. Ann said Kathy Kirby had a very powerful voice and it was a good catchy song. It might be a winner. Then came another female singer from Spain called Conchita. She was very dramatic and did a little dance as she sang but none of the family thought she had much of a chance. And suddenly the moment arrived; Ireland was next. Fonsie liked how, for each country, the presenter introduced the conductor of the orchestra as well as the singer. He thought that showed proper respect for the musicians. He was surprised when he heard the name of the conductor for Ireland. Ann looked surprised too.
‘Who’s Gianni Ferrio, Fonsie?’
‘I don’t know, it sounds like an Italian name. Well, I’m sure he’ll do a good job, Italians have a great musical tradition.’
When the presenter said, ‘“Walking the Streets in the Rain”, canta Butch Moore!’ and he walked out onto the stage smiling and looking as cool as anything, Marian felt her heart race. The dramatic piano chords and drumroll that began the song had a similar effect on everyone else. If hearts could be heard, their combined beating would have drowned out Butch and the entire orchestra.
For the next three minutes the Strong family shared silently the same fretful hope: that their fellow Irishman would survive his ordeal. Each found their own special reason to wish him success.
Ritchie’s was the simplest. Butch Moore was Irish, that’s all there was to it. It was true that when Butch and his showband performed at the Stella a couple of months back neither Ritchie nor Peter Malone nor any of his friends had bothered to go see him, but that was different. Now he was far away, in another country, singing for Ireland, so of course everyone should be cheering for him.
Gussie would give anything to do what Butch Moore was doing right now – being on television performing in front of millions of people. Or, even better, he imagined himself operating one of the cameras, steering it around the studio looking for the best shots, or one of those people with headphones giving signals, making sure everything was perfect because it was live and if something went wrong everyone would be laughing at them, thinking they were eejits.
Marian was afraid she was going to be sick, she was so nervous for Butch. She had to stop herself letting out a little cry when, as he sang sadly about the tears of the rain falling, it seemed to Marian that he turned and looked straight at her. She loved the way he patted his hand on
his thigh in time with the music. That was really sweet.
Fonsie was happy that Butch Moore was singing so confidently but he wished he’d stop tapping his hand on his thigh like that. It made him look like he couldn’t keep a proper beat. ‘Walking the Streets in the Rain’ wasn’t really Fonsie’s sort of song but the orchestration was very good. Maybe, maybe it would do well. People liked sad ballads.
Martin didn’t like the song, even more so because his stupid sister looked like she was going to burst out crying listening to it, but he still hoped Ireland would win because everyone would be happy then, his mam especially.
Ann liked everything about Butch Moore. He seemed to be a very well brought-up young man, his hair was neat, he didn’t act like he was full of himself, he had a lovely smile and his voice was very pleasant. Francis was hardly listening to the song at all because he was getting more and more nervous. Was he really going to be sent to bed after this? He wanted to see the rest of the show more than anything.
When the song ended and the audience applauded, Ritchie and Marian and Martin and even Gussie all cheered but Francis just hid himself at the side of the couch praying that, with all the excitement, his dad would forget he was there. The German song was next but nobody paid any attention because everyone, except Francis, was talking about how good Butch Moore had been, how he didn’t look a bit nervous and he had hit all the high notes perfectly. Austria, Norway, Belgium and Monaco followed. Half the countries had performed and Francis still hadn’t been sent to bed. He kept looking at the clock on the fireplace. It was nearly ten past nine. He had never been up so late before. It wasn’t so much the songs he liked listening to as all the different languages and wondering how they came to be. It was easy to work out why French people called Ireland Irlande but why did they call Britain Royaume Uni? Or why did the Italians call a singer canta or a conductor maestro? Francis thought maestro sounded much better than conductor.
Unspoken Page 14
