Unspoken

by Gerard Stembridge

  ‘Stay down for a sec.’

  Francis kept his head low. He heard squeaks and thumps as the bigger boys tipped their seats down. He could hear the sound of the picture as well. A man with a deep voice was saying, ‘I do not drink wine.’ When he got a tap on his shoulder he looked up. Martin was sitting with his feet up on the back of the seat in front of him.

  ‘OK, come on.’

  Francis sat and peeled the paper off his ice-pop. He could just see the picture over the top of the heads of people in front. It was huge. Much bigger than the television. The man had grey hair, staring eyes and a deep voice. He wasn’t showing his teeth yet but Francis knew he was the man on the poster.

  It was Dracula.

  The time went by so fast Francis couldn’t believe it when the picture ended. He never thought about Mary Poppins once. Dracula was excellent with three exclamation marks. Even though sometimes during the film he heard Martin and his friends muttering, he wasn’t interested in what they were saying and when they started laughing he didn’t wonder why. Even when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Martin smoking, he forgot about it a second later because Dracula was coming to Lucy’s bedroom. She backed away as he walked towards her. Then he closed the door and she screamed. Francis wasn’t afraid of Dracula at all. He wanted him to win. The only time he really got a fright was when the flashlamp suddenly shone at them. Francis was sure the man had caught him. He hid behind Martin and peeked but all he could see behind the flashlamp was the black shape of a big head with a hat on it like a policeman’s hat. The voice wasn’t whispering this time. It was like a dog growling.

  ‘Cut out the blackguardin’ or you’re out that door, do you hear me?’

  Then the flashlamp swung away and the man went to shine it on someone else at the back. Francis couldn’t believe the man hadn’t seen him. He said it to Martin and he whispered, ‘’Cause he’s a blind old bastard,’ and the other boys laughed. Francis didn’t say anything about the bad word because now Dracula, in his tomb, had suddenly opened his eyes wide, listening. He knew they were coming to get him. Francis hoped they wouldn’t. Near the end he guessed that Van Helsing would make a cross out of the candlesticks just before he did it. Once he did that, Dracula didn’t stand a chance. He turned into dust and blew away in the wind.

  All through The Face of Fu Manchu Francis couldn’t stop thinking about Dracula. The way he stared at people, the way he stood so tall, the way he walked and swished his cloak, the way he made everyone obey him without as much as lifting a finger. The way he was like an animal. The way he was always alone. Francis didn’t like Van Helsing. His voice sounded mean and he was full of himself, talking all the time about defeating evil. Francis just wanted to see Dracula again. He wished he knew the words to say what the story made him feel. He liked looking at Dracula. There was something about him, as if he knew something. A big secret. Fu Manchu wasn’t the same at all. He was just a bad man. Francis was glad that he didn’t win. When it was over he wished he could stay and watch Dracula again but Martin stood up and said, ‘Come on.’

  The rain had stopped and the sky was red and black. Martin’s friends kept asking him was he scared, would he have nightmares tonight, what if Dracula came to get him? Francis thought they were really stupid. They wanted to go to somewhere called Donkey’s but Martin said he had to bring the Squirt home. It was only when the other boys were gone that Francis suddenly thought about Mary Poppins.

  ‘Mam will be asking us about Mary Poppins.’

  ‘Just tell her it was brillo.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘Nothing else. Just say nothing.’

  ‘But she’ll ask me.’

  ‘No she won’t.’

  Francis didn’t believe him. When he thought of his mam asking him about Mary Poppins he got really frightened. She’d find out that he hadn’t seen it and she’d never let him go to the pictures again and she’d kill Martin and then he’d get Francis back. He stopped walking. He could feel tears coming.

  ‘I don’t want to go home. I don’t know what to say to Mam.’

  Martin tried to tell him again and again just say brillo and that would do but Francis knew that if Mam asked him any more questions he’d go all red and wouldn’t know what to say. Now Martin started to get angry again and told him he’d better not tell. Then, suddenly, he grabbed Francis’ hand and started walking back towards town. They went through the People’s Park. When they got out the other side Francis saw the big clock and the Dominicans’ Church, where the Lyric was. Was Martin going to bring him to see Mary Poppins now? They stopped outside the Lyric and Martin pointed at pictures in glass boxes on the wall.

  ‘Now look at those. Look. That’s Mary Poppins there. Now you can say you saw her flying or something and you won’t be telling a lie.’

  Francis looked at the pictures. There were one, two, three… eight. He looked from to the other. He saw Mary Poppins, he saw a man with a black face like his dad when he came home from work, but this man wasn’t a coalman. He had a brush and he was up on a roof. Francis got it; he cleaned chimneys. There was another man all dressed up in a stripy jacket dancing with Mary Poppins, but then Francis saw it wasn’t another man, it was the same man as the chimney sweep. Like Dracula and Fu Manchu were the same man. In another picture there were two children with cartoon animals all around them. Then Martin said, ‘OK, have you seen enough?’ and before Francis could answer Martin grabbed his hand and pulled him away.

  When they got home his mam was in very good mood. Marian was setting the table for tea and Dad was there too, all clean, watching Newsbeat on the telly. He was never home this early usually. There was a nice smell from the oven.

  ‘I made bread-and-butter pudding for the tea. So how did ye get on?’

  Martin said fine and, when he was asked what did he think of Mary Poppins, he just said, ‘Ah, boring.’ and went into the front room to play records.

  ‘Did you enjoy it, love?’

  Francis said he loved the picture, meaning Dracula, so it wasn’t a real lie.

  ‘Was it very funny?’

  Francis didn’t know what to say for a couple of seconds. Then he thought about one of the photos he saw outside the Lyric.

  ‘All the men dancing on the roof looked funny. They were cleaning the chimneys and then they all started dancing.’

  His mam opened the oven and checked the bread-and-butter pudding.

  ‘Lovely. And did you like the songs?’

  Francis really wanted to tell his Mam all about Dracula but he knew he couldn’t do that. So he thought about the other photos of Mary Poppins he saw. Then he started talking and talking and talking.

  ‘Yeah, they were singing on the roof as well. Then Mary Poppins came down out of the sky with her umbrella and then she met the man who was cleaning the chimneys and dancing and singing and he said can I go out with you and she said you have to wash yourself first because his face was all dirty from the chimneys and he said OK and then he was all clean with a stripy jacket on and Mary Poppins got all dressed up as well and she had a new umbrella and they went to the park and they started dancing and singing and… and… and oh yeah there was a boy about my age and a girl too with Mary Poppins and the man and then there was all these animals like in a cartoon. They were jumping and dancing around the boy and the girl and then they all went up on the roof and it was dark and they all got dirty from the chimneys and they were laughing.’

  As he spoke, his mam took the bread-and-butter pudding out of the oven and put it on the table. It smelled nice. She took down bowls and from the way she said, ‘That’s lovely,’ as she started filling the kettle and then called Marian to come and give her a hand with the tea, Francis knew she wasn’t listening to him any more.

  It was OK. He and Martin wouldn’t get into trouble. He hadn’t told.

  1966

  Eleven: January 26th

  ‘Am I right in thinking that’s the end of James Connolly and Tom Clarke?’


  Gavin Bloom stepped away from the crowded smoky set of the devastated General Post Office so that he could speak quietly to the director of Insurrection. Louis’ reply was precise as usual.

  ‘Not quite. We need the pick-up shot of Volunteers lifting Connolly from bed to stretcher.’

  Gavin was annoyed with himself. He hated forgetting any detail.

  ‘Sorry, yes of course. But Tom Clarke is wrapped, check?’

  ‘Yes that’s right. Now I don’t think we’ll get the pick-up done before lunch Gavin, so I propose –’

  ‘Yes, dearheart, just a sec…’

  Gavin interrupted because, surprisingly, Louis seemed to have forgotten something: the tradition of formally announcing when an actor had finished on a shoot. Gavin would now enjoy reminding him.

  ‘Is there a problem, Gavin?’

  Unless it’s a problem that you can’t be bothered to thank one of your actors, darling, who has given his all for several weeks now, Gavin thought but did not say. ‘No problem. Just a moment, sir.’

  He stepped through the main entrance of the General Post Office and clapped his hands to get the attention of seventy or so grubby, exhausted and wounded Irish rebels. But before he made his announcement Louis spoke down the cans.

  ‘Oh Gavin, I think now is probably the best time to announce that Jim is wrapped and thank him formally for his magnificent performance.’

  It was one of those rare occasions when Gavin Bloom was speechless. As everyone on the set looked at him, waiting for instructions, Louis spoke again.

  ‘Sorry, did you hear that? Tell Jim I’m coming out on the gantry, would you?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Got that, sir. All right everyone, we are happy with that last take, which means that the first of our 1916 heroes, the daddy of them all, Tom Clarke, aka Mr James Norton, is officially wrapped. Well done, Jim. Fantastic work as always, sir.’

  Everyone in the studio clapped and cheered. Gavin shook hands with Jim and, covering his microphone, whispered.

  ‘Look up to the gantry. His Serene Highness has emerged from production control to acknowledge your contribution.’

  Jim Norton waved up at Louis and offered a mock-formal incline of the head. Then he grinned at Gavin and the sparkle in his eyes suddenly betrayed the handsome young actor hiding behind the white moustache, thinning white hair and glasses of the aging 1916 hero. Gavin was caught by surprise. Having grown so used to seeing Tom Clarke ill and world-weary, he had almost forgotten that Jim Norton was nearly thirty years younger than his character. Since production began, Gavin had more or less lived on this enormous set, a replica of the General Post Office in 1916, as they recorded scene after increasingly moving scene of this drama series. Quite genuinely, he had begun to forget about the actors Jim, Ronnie, Declan and Eoin, and instead saw only the legendary heroes of Irish nationalism, Tom Clarke, James Connolly, Joseph Plunkett and Patrick Pearse, made flesh and blood and voice. Only the day before, during a scene in which James Connolly dictated to a female Volunteer his final dispatch to the troops, Gavin had been unable to hold back the waterworks. Luckily Louis’ decisive, ‘Splendid and… cut,’ down the cans reminded him just in time that it was only dear old Ronnie Walsh tugging at the heartstrings. In fairness to all the thesps, they were really doing the business on this one, acting their thick woolly socks off day after day but, thinking about it afterwards, Gavin still couldn’t make up his mind if the scene was just sentimental old tripe and it had been completely unprofessional to get tearfully involved like that or was there something deeper, more profound happening within himself? Which thought immediately prompted the answering thought: Deep, darling? Me, darling? Profound? Never heard of the word.

  The simple truth was that, although everyone working on the production was fully aware that the scenes they were acting out each day in Studio One had actually taken place, less than three miles away, in the GPO on O’Connell Street, it was only now, as the final tragic scenes were being recorded, that this fact of history was prompting a powerful emotional response from actors and crew. These real-life heroes had offered up their own lives. And was it because of their sacrifice that Gavin and his colleagues had the freedom to play-act in Studio One?

  Louis decided that time would be better used if they took an early lunch. They would lift James Connolly from bed to stretcher after the break. Gavin was the last to leave Studio 1 and recognised a familiar melancholy mood creeping up on him: that last-day feeling. Tonight would be the big one, the scene he had been anticipating nervously for some time. They would set fire to the General Post Office and the plan was that Patrick Pearse would stand lonely amid the burning ruins, contemplating the end of his dream for a free Gaelic Republic, before walking away through the smoke. They could be in for a long night. It might go according to Louis’ meticulous schedule or it could turn into an unholy mess and they’d all have to hightail it from a blazing Studio One. Gavin was confident that Eoin O’Súileabháin, who could be a moody fucker but a glorious actor when he felt like it, would hold the moment brilliantly, but the rest of it was a logistical nightmare. He thought it was hilarious that Louis had brought over an English pyrotechnical expert to create the fire. ‘They burned us out in 1916 dearheart, now we’re bringing them over to do it again.’ Gavin imagined that even if the whole place went up in flames, Louis would still be issuing crisp instructions. ‘Track in two, CU Pearse on one, standing by with wide shot three. More smoke!’ Gavin had insisted that the Dublin fire brigade should be on hand in case of any accidents. Once this scene was shot, then the great adventure would be over. He knew already he’d feel a little lost. More than anything he loved being in the thick of a big show and this was the biggest Teilifís Éireann had ever done. He loved working with and being around actors. This bunch were a handful but truly wonderful. He loved being so busy that he didn’t have time to think of other things. Things out there beyond the studio walls.

  *

  Mary Storan asked Mikey, if she persuaded Ann and Fonsie to go to Carry On Cowboy tonight, could he get them in free? She knew he’d say no problem but she always made sure to ask because, sometimes, depending on who was doing the tickets, it could be a bit awkward. Mary had this notion in the back of her head that Ann could do with a good night out and a laugh. She looked completely worn out when the Storans called round as always on St Stephen’s Night and Mary could see it was more than just the usual tiredness after Christmas. Ann, of course, hid it with her best smile and was full of happy talk and joined in the singsong as usual but Mary wasn’t fooled. She’d known Ann Casey far too long. And there was something about the way Fonsie tiptoed round her even more than usual. Mary hadn’t got to the bottom of it that night and what with one thing and another hadn’t seen Ann since, so a night out at the pictures seemed like a good way of giving her a bit of a lift. Mikey had told Mary that it was the best Carry On yet and Sid James was brilliant in it.

  The key was in the door of number 66 and Mary was about to shout ‘Hello!’ as she opened it when she saw Ann, with a big smile on her face, peeping into her own front room. Mary was so surprised she didn’t speak for a second and, next thing, Ann spotted her and put her finger to her lips which, of course, meant that Mary Storan had to do the opposite and speak. ‘What is it?’ Ann went shhh! and waved for her to come and look. Mary still asked. ‘What’s going on?’ Ann pulled her closer to the front room door, whispering, ‘C’mere. Look. This is the latest. Don’t laugh now.’

  Mary didn’t know what in God’s name she was about to see but, whatever it was, she could tell Ann thought it was great gas. The front-room door was only open a tiny bit so she had to look in with one eye. Francis was standing in front of the good cabinet, facing the far wall. He had his head bowed, doing actions with his hands and he was muttering to himself. For a second Mary couldn’t figure what he was wearing over his white shirt and then she worked it out. He had knotted two stripy green towels together at two corners and put his head through the gap. It sat on his thin sho
ulders like a gown. Then Mary copped on. It was meant to be a priest’s Mass vestments. Of course. Now she noticed the twine tied around his waist and rosary beads hanging from it. Francis lifted a silver cup high above his head, still muttering, She had to turn away and cover her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud.

  ‘That’s one of Marian’s Irish dancing trophies, isn’t it?’

  ‘Killaloe Feis. Under-fourteen jig. Did you ever in all your life? And you saw what he’s using for the blessed Eucharist?’

  Mary looked again. Francis’ head was now bent down. He was holding a broken-off piece of ice-cream wafer close to his lips and whispering. Mary tried her best to hear him. ‘… speak but the word and my soul shall be healed.’ Then he put the wafer in his mouth and genuflected. Mary felt Ann pulling at her arm. She followed her to the scullery and closed the door so they could laugh.

  ‘Well, that’s the best yet. How long has that been going on?’

  ‘Only since Christmas. I suppose it was all the Masses and carol services we went to and then Fonsie’s mother gave him one of the new missals in English. I thought, ah for God’s sake, what kind of a present is that to give a six-year-old, but he’s after proving me wrong now. Loves it. He has the whole thing off by heart already.’

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘I swear to God. I mean there’s words he couldn’t understand but he knows how to say it all off. The priest’s part and all the responses.’

  Mary lit up a fag. Ann put the kettle on.

  ‘Does he do a sermon and all?’

  ‘I swear to God he does.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh yeah, talking away to the furniture. All about Christmas you know. How Baby Jesus came to save us.’

  ‘Well now, have we a priest in the making?’

  ‘I was thinking that. I mean, here we are laughing but you know, none of the others ever did that, not even Gussie and he was a bit of a play-actor too.’