Mary blew a perfect smoke ring.
‘Do you know what, Ann? I must be a better godmother than I thought I was.’
‘Well, maybe so now.’
‘Ah go ’way, I’m only joking.’
‘I know, but I mean still. He’s mad about you. Weren’t you the first person he showed the crib to. Even before he brought it home here.’
Mary knew in her heart that this was true and she really had been touched when Francis did that. On the day he got his Christmas holidays he called in to her flat on his way home from school. He was carrying a big box. Look what I won, Auntie Mary. She could tell he was made up over it. It was a beautiful big crib with thick black paper all crumpled up, sprayed with snow and a shiny gold star stuck on top. It had lovely painted figures, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, the wise men, a cow, a donkey, sheep, the whole farm. Straw even. Mary told him it was absolutely gorgeous. How had he won it?
‘We had a Christmas spelling test and Sister Goretti said whoever came first would win a prize and I got twenty out of twenty and no one else did and Sister Goretti said I could have two shillings or the class crib and I said the class crib.’
‘You chose the crib instead of the money?’
And his face had been so innocent when he answered her, as if to say of course, Auntie Mary, what else would I do, that, straight away, she’d gone for her purse and taken out two shillings, warning him not to tell his mam, because Mary knew Ann would kill her for giving him money and probably make him give it back. Francis promised and, somehow, Mary felt sure that, even though he never shut up talking from one end of the day to the other, she could trust him not to say anything to Ann about the two shillings.
‘I couldn’t get over it. I mean it’s a much nicer crib than our old one and he’s mad about it but, honestly, when I was his age I’d have taken the two shillings like a flash.’
‘I’d have taken sixpence.’
‘I don’t think it even occurred to him.’
Then Mary got a surprise when Ann added, ‘Mind you, he wasn’t so holy that he didn’t take the two shillings when I gave it to him.’
‘You gave him two bob?’
Mary nearly said ‘as well’ but stopped herself in time. Ann sounded very proud as she spoke.
‘Ah yeah, I mean when he was telling me the story didn’t I nearly start crying and I thought, God help us, wasn’t he so good to do that? There was Sister Goretti testing him, holding out the two shillings for him to take and still he picked the crib. Because he loved baby Jesus, he told me. I mean, he deserved some kind of a reward for that. So I just thought it was only fair that he shouldn’t lose out on the two shillings.’
For a tiny moment Mary wondered. Surely Francis could not have known that by choosing the crib instead of the two shillings he would end up with the crib and four shillings. No. Ah no. It wouldn’t have crossed the child’s mind.
‘Imagine all the same, if he did become a priest?’
Mary blew a big cloud high in the air.
‘Well Ann, at least we’d have an “in” with the man above and, God knows, we could do with it.’
Mary Storan wasn’t one of those women who prayed for a priest in the family. She certainly couldn’t imagine her Shamie becoming one and, in all honesty, wouldn’t want him to be, being her only boy. Maybe it was different for Ann with four boys. Thinking about it, Mary was a tiny bit tickled at the notion that herself and Mikey would get some of the credit for her godson having a vocation. They’d be cock of the walk at his ordination. What a laugh! In all seriousness though, she was relieved to find Ann in such good form today. Whatever had been troubling her seemed to have passed and that could only be a good thing.
*
Miriam Hartnett, a young design assistant on Insurrection, passed Gavin in the corridor. ‘Lona at reception is looking for you. She said there’s someone waiting to see you.’
Gavin wasn’t expecting any visitors. Lunch break was short enough and, with such an intense afternoon and evening ahead of him, frankly, he was in no mood for distractions. Who the hell could it be, anyway? Though tempted to ignore the message, he couldn’t resist walking down the corridor to the double doors leading to reception and having a sneaky peek, but opening one of the doors slightly and putting an eye to the gap didn’t provide him with an answer. There was no one standing around and the reception desk itself impeded his view of the seated area. He could just about see a head of wavy hair, which wasn’t even sufficient indication whether the person was male or female. The sensible thing, given that he was a busy little bee today, would have been to turn round, go back upstairs to the canteen and let whoever it was go and shite. But Gavin was curious. He went to the internal phone on the wall just inside Studio One and called Lona at reception. Gavin explained that he was very busy and, before deciding whether or not to meet this person, needed to check out on the QT who was looking for him. Lona replied almost in a whisper.
‘He says his name is Brendan Barry… Hello Gavin? … Did you get that?’
But Gavin had already dropped the phone and run back to the double doors. Again he opened one a fraction and peered through. Lona had put down the phone and was calling out ‘Mr Barry’. When the young man stood up Gavin instantly remembered the pale taut delicate face. His brown eyes were just as sad and – Gavin could not summon up any other word – beautiful as he remembered them. Remembered and thought about many times over the last while. Brendan Barry. Gavin saw him smile his shy smile. His natural timidity was beguiling. So it had been that night last April. Gavin remembered how Brendan Barry’s easy charming hotel-manager banter had very gradually lurched and stuttered. In the end neither of them had been able to decide what the next move should be, what words needed to be spoken.
When Baz Malloy, walking towards TV reception, saw Gavin peering through a tiny gap in the double doors he was amused because he had just been caught indulging in a little mild voyeurism himself. Over the last few weeks on the set of Insurrection, he had become increasingly attracted to the design assistant, Miriam, but hadn’t yet had a chance to test if the feeling was in any way mutual. A couple of minutes ago, as he turned onto the corridor, there she was, walking a few yards in front of him. Just as he made a decision to catch up with her and attempt to start a conversation, Miriam went into the Ladies. Baz stopped outside the door, staring at it in frustration. Then it suddenly opened and a woman he didn’t know gave him a very odd look as she emerged. He walked away quickly, telling himself, another time. So what was Gavin up to? Who was he spying on? He tapped his shoulder to surprise him but wasn’t remotely prepared for the reaction he got.
‘What the fuck! What do you fucking think you’re doing, Baz! Jesus!’
This was so unlike Gavin that Baz just raised his palms, said, ‘Sorry!’ and moved quickly into the reception area. He heard the double doors slam behind him. What was that all about? What had Gavin been looking at? Apart from Lona at the desk, the only other person in reception was a fair-haired young guy who was leaving. Was it him? They reached the exit at the same moment and the young guy politely held back to allow Baz go first.
Gavin, on the other side of the closed double doors, was furious with himself. Where had that snap come from? What made him issue the lash like that? He would apologise to Baz later. At least it forced him to make a decision about what to do next. Acting on that decision was harder. It helped to imagine Louis’ voice issuing directorial instructions. ‘Open the door. Now go talk to him would you, please Gavin, thank you.’ Walking into TV reception he composed his opening line, a cheerfully relaxed greeting, ‘Well Mr Barry, how’s the hotel business?’
Gavin had noticed Brendan Barry moments before he met him for the first time in a packed hotel lobby after a live outside broadcast during last year’s election campaign. He was, literally, a face in the crowd. Gavin and the rest of the crew were leaving the function room where the election debate had happened. The usual circus surrounding Teilifís Éireann’s trips down the coun
try was in full swing. Apart from programme participants and audience members, the lobby was jammed with local hangerson who descended on the hotel just to be part of the glamour and excitement. Gavin loved outside broadcasts. Live audiences largely made up of simple folk, television virgins, their mouths agape at the goings on, were a gift to a sophisticated floor manager with a silver tongue. Gavin felt it more or less incumbent on him to treat them to his most extravagant performance. As far as he was concerned, in these situations he was the public face of Teilifís Éireann. As the audience never saw the actual director of the show, who was tucked away in a van somewhere outside the venue, it was inevitable that they frequently assumed Gavin was king of it all. Of course he would never make such a claim, not by nod or wink or hint but, somehow, people seemed to form that impression. Perhaps it was the way he strutted freely about the set and with a gesture, a graceful motion of his hand, instructed the famous presenter, John O’Donoghue, when to speak and into what camera. Perhaps it was because it was Gavin who, with simple mime, exhorted the audience to applaud or commanded them to be silent and respectful. At any outside broadcast there was a percentage of the audience who would remember nothing of the programme itself, because they spent the entire evening observing Gavin’s behind-the-cameras tour de force. So, after the election debate had ended, he already knew that a gaggle of awestruck locals would be waiting to approach him, nervously eager to discover more about the secrets of television. As he emerged from the function room he immediately noticed this particular face pushing towards him through the melée. It was crystal clear that the bright innocent brown eyes were fixed on him, but it was only as the young man emerged from the scrum of bodies that Gavin saw how trim and immaculately suited he was. The hand Gavin shook was spotlessly manicured, its grip strong and determined. Yet the eyes remained shy.
‘Hello. I’m Brendan Barry, the night manager.’
Gavin wondered for a second was the young man putting on a joke voice? It was a strange mismatch; the delicate features, the soft eyes behind longer-than-usual lashes seemed to clash with an accent as flat and rasping as any local low-life.
Brendan Barry congratulated Gavin on a top-class, professional production. He said the hotel was thrilled skinny that they had been chosen to host the broadcast and hoped everyone was happy with the accommodation and facilities. Gavin managed no more than an agreeble nod as Brendan Barry scarcely drew breath. He had been up to his eyes since coming on duty but managed to nip in a couple of times during the broadcast to see what was happening. Very impressive. A-1, the whole operation. Gavin was the name, was it? Brendan Barry said he spotted it on the credits at the end. Anyway, the way Gavin had co-ordinated everything was just spot-on. The ordinary Joe Soap probably wouldn’t realise how complicated that end of it was, but Brendan Barry thought Gavin had done brilliant, absolutely mighty. Flattered as Gavin was, he was also thirsty. He pushed towards the bar. Brendan Barry, still talking, stepped ahead to ease his way. He had also caught a fair bit of the programme itself on the TV set they rigged up in the bar for the occasion and, from what he saw, it seemed to him that, as far as the debate itself was concerned, Dom had really stuck it to the rest of them. He wondered if Gavin agreed, from his professional persective? Gavin asked if he was a government supporter, then? Jay no, not at all. Brendan Barry seemed surprised by the question, although in fairness he would admit that Dom was a regular in the hotel and a colourful character. An awful man too, sometimes. Brendan thought he should mention that it might be just as well to keep out of his way later on tonight, if previous experience was anything to go by. Very enjoyable sometimes though, to watch Dom’s antics from a safe distance.
Although Gavin agreed with Brendan Barry that tonight, on a panel of local opposing candidates, Dom had been the undoubted star turn, he explained to him that, as a Teilifís Éireann employee working on a political programme during an election campaign, he was precluded by the Broadcasting Act from making any comment that revealed a bias. Even as he said this, Gavin thought it sounded far too pompous, so he added that even if the particular politician mentioned did indeed wipe the floor with the rest of them and even if it was Gavin’s professional opinion that this particular politician understood much better than anyone else on the panel how to use television, he had to keep these opinions to himself. Brendan Barry grinned and asked did that mean he couldn’t agree with him that Dom had the best answer of the night when he told the old Fine Gaeler, Russell, that ‘moral indignation is only envy with a halo’? Gavin said definitely he could make no comment on that, nor could he comment on how smart Dom was to mention that he’d be on the edge of his seat at Dalymount Park in a couple of weeks’ time, roaring on the local team in the FAI cup final. He got the biggest cheer of the night when he said that. In fact the only thing Gavin was allowed to say – and, with perfect timing, he reached the bar at that moment and rapped the counter – was, ‘Drink please!’ Brendan Barry laughed and insisted on getting the order himself. He ducked in under the bar, served up the gin and tonic requested and refused payment. He seemed to stare at Gavin as if about to say something. Then, quite suddenly, excused himself: ‘Sorry, up to my eyes.’ For a few second’s Gavin’s eyes followed the younger man’s rapid yet elegant progress through the sweaty crowd.
Three times more over the next few hours, Brendan Barry returned to where Gavin sat with other crew members. On the first two occasions the young manager appeared to address the general group, politely enquiring if everything was to the satisfaction of the Teilifís Éireann contingent. Though the words were directed at them all, Gavin could not help but feel that the eyes were not. Brendan’s childlike gaze returned to him again and again and, it seemed, lingered. Having received increasingly boisterous assurances that they were all having a whale of a time, he bowed ever so slightly and politely left the group. Gavin had to stop himself gazing after the departing figure.
On the third occasion, Brendan Barry appeared out of nowhere. Gavin felt a hand graze his shoulder and looked up to see him leaning forward, his fringe flopping over his right eye. He was close enough to speak quietly and be heard by Gavin alone. Close enough to notice his scent. Discreet, expensive.
‘Just thought you’d be interested to hear. I got it all wrong about the bould Dom. He’s been on red lemonade all night. Like a lamb over there in the corner.’
Gavin stood up to take a look at what was, apparently, the unheard of spectacle of the notorious Dom sober in a bar late at night. More importantly, this move also allowed Gavin to turn away from his colleagues and stand close to Brendan.
‘Listen, we’re closing the bar so we can get rid of the gougers. Run ’em out of Dodge. There’s a few of them acting the langer. But don’t worry, we’ll keep serving ye all once they’re gone.’
‘Thanks. You’re very good to think of us…’
He hesitated. Brendan did not move away. His angelic smile had a passive but expectant quality. It encouraged Gavin to continue.
‘We might even get a chance to have a proper chat when things have calmed down for you?’
The reply came without hesitation.
‘That’d be mighty.’
Gavin watched Brendan move energetically around the bar, targeting particular clusters and politely urging their departure. He motioned the bar staff to start collecting glasses. He ignored increasingly desperate pleas for one more lousy drink. In what seemed to Gavin an amazingly short time, the great mass of bodies had been cast out and the lurching, heaving mob was reduced to a few privileged boozers. Apart from genuine residents, including the television crew, all that remained were the election candidates and their particular friends.
As the next hour passed, Gavin, despite drinking more or less continuously, remained alert. The ritual dance he had nicknamed the Outside Broadcast Tango began. Around two o’clock Mr Senior Cameraman and Miss PA became the first to fall together. Very soon after, Mr Sound Supervisor sidled in the direction of Miss Hair and Make-up. Rather more subtl
y, Madam Director, having animatedly solved the nation’s problems with young Mr Researcher, suddenly yawned, stretched, checked her watch and announcing sleepily that she’d better get along. Less than five minutes later young Mr Researcher resisted all pleas to stay for just one more, claiming that he was ‘totally fucked’. Maybe not totally yet, Gavin thought, as the lift door closed and carried the sleepy lad to his chosen bed.
By now the lobby was so quiet Dom’s voice could be heard from a distant corner blabbing out a production line of anecdotes. The hangers-on contributed regular bursts of laughter. Gavin stood and meandered. For no particular reason, he told himself. When he saw Brendan Barry go behind the unattended reception desk to answer the phone it suddenly seemed the right time to collect his room key and head for bed. Gavin approached, holding himself as steady as possible. Brendan Barry put down the phone, looked up and smiled.
How long they stood talking across this barricade it was impossible to recall. Thinking about it now as he walked through the double doors to television reception all Gavin could remember was the odd, but delicious, sense that, for whatever few seconds or minutes, it had felt like they were entirely alone. Which, of course, was not the case. Dom and his acolytes were still rattling along and there were drunks lounging about. But what his memory really held onto was how the silent language of eyes and smiles and little gestures had created a private wordless universe which had nothing whatsoever to do with the trivia of their spoken conversation because, in the end, what might have been said never was. When the moment came, the moment when there were no words left to say other than those that might smash through a barrier less visible but rather more recalcitrant than the reception desk between them, neither Gavin nor Brendan Barry had been able to summon up those words, even though, in his strong memory, Gavin could see Brendan’s face inviting him to speak. He was equally convinced that his expression had encouraged Brendan to do likewise. Instead, eventually, lamely, the encounter ended with, ‘If you’re in Dublin at all…’ scribbling his name and the TÉ number on a scrap of paper, underlining the extension number as if to underline the sincerity of his interest.
Unspoken Page 18
