‘I’d be delighted to show you round the studios… have a coffee.’
These, it transpired, were the last words spoken before the desk girl arrived back and Gavin, smiling a polite good night, took his key and turned towards the lift.
Brendan Barry was no longer in TV reception. Gavin slowly turned 360 degrees as if he was expecting him to pop up out of nowhere. He caught Lona’s eye and made a questioning gesture. She looked surprised in her entirely uninterested way.
‘Oh. Where’s he gone? He was here a minute ago.’
‘No matter.’
Lona resumed pretending to be busy and Gavin stared at the revolving exit door. So. Gone. So. That was that. OK. Probably just as well, what with the hectic afternoon and evening Gavin had ahead of him. Lunch-time was speeding by and the thing to do now was go upstairs to the canteen. Gavin tried not to look like he was either hurried or anxious as he turned instead through the revolving door. Once outside he walked a few casual steps before he started trotting. The figure of a man he presumed was Brendan Barry was just about visible, almost at the Nutley Road exit. Gavin would have to get a lot closer before calling his name, otherwise he would seem a bit frantic and draw unnecessary attention on himself. But finally he had to shout out, or it would have been too late.
Brendan Barry turned and, recognising Gavin, smiled in immediate and open delight.
*
Across the road from the Carlton Cinema, Ann, Mary Storan and Fonsie sat in the lorry waiting for Mikey. The women huddled together for warmth, still laughing at bits from Carry On Cowboy. Mary had a soft spot for Sid James, especially that dirty laugh, a bit like her own, she said and laughed. She’d never have thought he’d make such a good cowboy, though. Jim Dale wasn’t her cup of tea at all, to be honest. Ann said, ah no, Jim Dale was nice but Charles Hawtry was her favourite. He made her laugh just looking at him. She asked Mary if he reminded her of anyone. Mary said no. Ann said wasn’t he very like Seánie Madigan, who did the dame in Panto Frolics every year. Hadn’t he the same, she didn’t know what to call it, funny way about him.
‘That’s because Seánie Madigan is one of those, the same as Charles Hawtry.’
‘Ah, Mary, don’t be saying things like that. Anyway, I wasn’t talking about that, I was talking about their acting, you know, their expressions. The way they… I don’t know, it’s hard to explain, but they’re very funny.’
‘I’m telling you it’s because they’re both nancy-boys Ann. Sure I saw Seánie Madigan coming out of Todds one day and I swear on my late mother’s soul he was wearing eye-shadow.’
‘No!’
‘I’m telling you.’
‘Go ’way, I don’t believe that.’
Ann didn’t want even to be thinking of those sort of things. All she was trying to say was that she thought Charles Hawtry was funny in the Carry Ons and, in the same way, Seánie Madigan was funny in the panto. She told Mary that Gussie, for his first Christmas present since he started earning, had taken Fonsie and herself on a night out to see Dick Whittington and they had a great laugh. Mary said that was very generous of him but Ann just made a face and said it was typical Gussie, everything had to be a big show. When he brought them to Naughton’s on the way home didn’t he want them to sit inside and have their fish and chips off plates. And of course he drove them mad singing his favourite bits from the songs in the panto over and over. There was one about all the tax on drink. She couldn’t remember how it went. She asked Fonsie who said, ‘Huh?’ because he hadn’t been following the chat. He had been thinking that maybe he should start the engine and get a bit of heat going in the lorry while they were waiting for Mikey and wasn’t Mary great, the way she always put Ann in a good mood and made her forget her troubles.
‘Fonsie, are you listening? What was that song that Gussie thought was so funny. About the tax on the pint. What’s this it was to the tune of?’
‘Oh… ah… yes. “Black Velvet Band”.’
‘That was it. “Black Velvet Band”. Can you remember any of it?’
‘I should be able to, we had to listen to it often enough. It went aah… let me see…
“The more that the price of a pint goes up,
The more you will see it go down.”’
‘That was it and Seánie Madigan pointed his thumb in the air for the first bit and then put it down his mouth for the second bit, you know like he was drinking, do you understand?’
Mary Storan said that was very clever all right. She was sorry now that she hadn’t gone to see the panto and, in fairness to him, Seánie Madigan was always a brilliant Dame. Oh he really was, said Ann. Even if he is a big old nancy-boy, said Mary, and Ann poked her, laughing.
Mikey arrived, saying there was no need to wait, he’d have enjoyed the walk home. He sat in and put his arm around Ann and said isn’t this a grand tight squeeze? Fonsie said he hoped Mary didn’t mind having to sit on the water tank between the two seats. Mary said not at all, wasn’t it warming her bum very nicely? and they all laughed. As they took off Ann suggested that a few chips from Naughton’s would be the perfect way to round off the night.
*
In room 522 of the Dublin Intercontinental hotel, Brendan Barry laid his head in the curve of Gavin Bloom’s neck and shoulder, curling his legs and arms tightly around as if determined not to let him escape. Gavin stroked his wavy hair and smooth neck, reaassuringly. Was their frantic breathing loud enough to wake sleepers in nearby rooms? Gavin felt Barry’s breath hot against his collarbone. He enjoyed the sensation just as, to his surprise, he felt completely at ease with the muscularity of the body clinging to him. In his imagined script of a drama like this, slipping away quietly would be the next item on the running order, dearheart. But no, as it turned out, emphatically no. The darkness and the stillness were added blessings because he was exhausted. He had talked enough all day, to Louis, to crew, to actors. At a certain point late tonight he had begun to wonder would they ever go for a take or just endlessly rehearse this final sequence with its slow complicated developing crane shot, tracking, seemingly floating, through the smoking, burning GPO until the moment when Commandant Pearse entered frame dramatically, from below camera, and walked slowly towards the centre of the blaze to his mark. As the clock ticked towards midnight Gavin had became increasingly tense and his tone more abrupt, bordering on aggressive. He just wanted to wrap and get out of there. Yet, when the take finally happened and the fussy little pyrotechnics expert from London had set the place ablaze and arty Baz had added his unique poetic touch to the camera move, Gavin, standing by to cue Eoin O’Súileabháin for his entrance, had still been able to forget everything except the moment, the drama. And of course, once O’Súileabháin walked on, he was mesmerising, somehow managing to convey with his body alone the nobility, tragedy and, it seemed to Gavin, a little of the insanity of Pearse. Was he standing there contemplating, sadly, desperately, in the collapsing ruin of the GPO, the failure of his dream of Irish freedom or was he preparing to step gloriously into the fire of martyrdom? Everyone’s concentration remained unwavering. The seconds passed. Gavin heard Louis whisper ‘wonderful wonderful’ down the cans. He let the scene run, perhaps hoping for some extra unexpected moment of magic. The silence was as intense as Studio One had ever experienced. Would he ever call ‘cut’? Out of the gloom Gavin spotted a stagehand’s anxious hand-signals. Then he saw. Oh Christ! Smoke and flame had crept up the pillars and were now dangerously close to the lighting grid. He whispered to production control.
‘Louis, are you happy with the take?’
‘Hmm. Oh yes, yes absolutely. Eoin is magnificent, isn’t he?’
‘Good, because I think the studio might be about to catch fire.’
Gavin broke the spell with a loud. ‘A-a-a-and Louis is happy. We’re all happy. That’s a wrap! Well done, Eoin, absolutely fabulous. Well done everyone and off the set immediately, please. NOW! Fire brigade, please!’
He reassured Louis, who came running out on to th
e gantry, that the fire was under control and everyone was safe. Then, as if at the flick of a switch, this production, which had consumed him for months, indeed the 1916 Rising itself and all its dead heroes, counted for nothing any more. Gavin Bloom quietly sidestepped the hubbub of hugs and embraces he would normally have been leading and orchestrating. He now had only one focus, one anxiety. Already he was late for his rendezvous and Brendan Barry was in Dublin for one night only. Even though Gavin ran to his car, and drove too fast, in his heart he was already convinced that it wasn’t going to work out.
Yet, astonishingly, against all logic, everything was OK. When Gavin hurried into the Coffee Dock at the Ballsbridge Inter-Continental, sweating, apologetic and mildly hysterical, Brendan Barry was waiting calmly, seemingly unfazed by any delay. He simply suggested, quite brazenly, that they go straight up to his room. They did. What Gavin had not expected was how such an easy, charming, accommodating man afterwards became this lonely clinging child. Fortunately, he found the inconsistency appealing. Tonight at least. Gavin felt the need to speak, even if only in a whisper.
‘Do you think we’re the only two in Ireland?’
‘Hmm?’
‘You know, right now, together, like this?’
‘Fellahs?’
‘Yes.’
Brendan sounded amused. ‘I doubt it.’
‘But sometimes you’d think there was no one else in the whole country, wouldn’t you?’
‘Sure you work in Teilifís. Everyone says it’s full of poofs.’
‘Ah yeah, I know. And it seems that way. But things aren’t always as they seem. I mean, look at me. Twenty-seven and this is my first time.’
It was impossible not to hear the genuine surprise in Brendan’s voice.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes. Oh I’ve seen the inside of Bartley’s and even had the odd flirt but… no.’
Brendan squeezed tighter and yawned.
‘Well, that’s even nicer then.’
Gavin wondered why, having talked for Ireland all day, he couldn’t stop himself talking now.
‘It’s hard to know what anything means, isn’t it? When I first noticed that people thought there was something different about me, I didn’t know what that was because… well, I was just me. What made it more confusing was some people liked me and some people hated me for the same reason. Then I find myself with a baby and even though I’m not even sure if I want one, suddenly a lot more people seemed to like me again ’cause they’re thinking, oh, it’s all right, he enjoys acting like a queer but he isn’t really, it’s all just for a laugh, a bit of an act. He’s just… flamboyant. But of course I’d already started thinking maybe I wasn’t just flamboyant ’cause I was noticing men all the time now and not only the obvious queens but all sorts. I couldn’t stop. Even when I was out with little Alice and her mother I’d be taking sly glances at fellahs passing. One day I was staring at this young couple in the canteen and one of the crew at my table says to me, ‘You’re a married man you dirty dog, keep your eyes off her,’ not realising that it wasn’t her I was looking at. Brenda saw through me, though. Alice’s mother. Not that she ever said the words. She could see I was just sort of drifting away from her. Avoiding. Spending more time at work. Going away on too many outside broadcasts. And even when we were together nothing much was happening any more. Anyway… So she left. We didn’t even have a decent row about it. “I’m not really what you want, am I?” was all she said and I couldn’t argue with that.’
Gavin had never spoken out like this, never shared such intimate thoughts with another person. When he fell silent again, the steady rise and fall of Brendan’s relaxed breathing made him realise that, in fact, he still had not.
Twelve: February 1st
Dom loved being a man among men. Eight months after becoming a minister he still felt the tingle, the thrill, the horn, to put it crudely, every time he sat down for the weekly cabinet meeting; togging out for Ireland’s first fifteen. And he loved Seán Lemass, who had gone out on a limb, made an act of faith, perhaps even played loose with the law, to put him in this position. Sober Dom had promised, ‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ that he would repay that faith. Unlike some others he could name at this table right now. He tried to listen carefully as Lemass dealt with the main item on the agenda today; the schedule of official events commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the Easter Rising. As ever, the Taoiseach focused on detail – dates and times, places, lists. Matters of fact. A stranger would never have guessed that the man talking had, at seventeen, been in the thick of it, fighting in the GPO alongside those who subsequently became martyrs and saints. At seventeen the only people Dom had fought were classmates in Clongowes; handbags at ten paces. It had never been proved either way if, during the War of Independence, Lemass really had been one of Collins’ hitmen, the notorious twelve apostles, yet every time Dom was tempted to rubbish the rumour, it would occur to him that it wasn’t poets or hotheaded idealists who were best fitted to walk into a house by dawn’s early light, put a gun to a man’s head and blow him away. If patience and calm control were what was required to be an assassin, then Seán Lemass might well be your man. And if he had helped change the history of Ireland back then, it seemed to Dom he had done it again forty years later, perhaps to greater effect, without ego or bombast, offering a vision of economic transformation in the same cautious, dull tone with which he was now outlining a plan to use Croke Park as the venue for the big commemorative pageant.
Looking at those grouped closely around the Leader, Dom amused himself by framing them as a modern, rather grubby, version of some Dutch old master; a sort of tableau vivant of betrayal. Jack and Neil sat closest to the Taoiseach, both employing their weapon of choice, the pipe, perfect for puffing, plucking and pointing. Haloes of smoke hung above them. Look at us, the pipes seem to declare, we are symbols of unhurried intelligence, owned and operated by weighty men who can be trusted with the reins of power. Next was Charlie, the young genius, the lizard son-in-law who knew how to hold a cigarette with style. Did Lemass really trust him? After all, Dom, who was his pal and, even since sobriety, still enjoyed his company above all others, certainly wouldn’t trust him. At least George, sitting next to Jack, made no bones about his ambition to succeed Lemass, although of course he didn’t see it as ambition, more like entitlement. When Dom’s eyes flicked to Dr Pat he felt the old sore, the long-time local rivalry, pinch and torment him. His inner voice savagely mimicked quiet, harmless, loyal Dr Pat’s modest locutions. ‘Who me? The leadership of the nation? Ah no, no, no. What am I but a quiet, gentle, empathetic, highly intelligent rural physician turned reluctant statesman? Me, born to serve? … Well, of course, should the Nation call, should the people cry out, who am I to deny them their wish?’ Dom was convinced that every one of them was praying for Lemass to depart the scene as soon as possible. He knew the rationale exactly, he had heard Charlie actually put it in words. Having won the Party a third election in a row, there was no way he could win them a fourth. So, because whoever took over would need as much time as possible to prepare for the next battle, the sooner Lemass moved on the better.
Dom did not support this. He wanted his beloved boss to go on and on. The main reason, the decent reason, was that he considered him to be a truly great Taoiseach, but there was a less decent reason. Dom didn’t fool himself that personal ambition played no part in his thinking. He was just glad that, as it happened, ambition and loyalty to Lemass were comfortable bedfellows. Dom didn’t see a fourth victory either. Common sense told him it wasn’t possible to keep beating the odds. People got sick of the sight of you sooner or later. After defeat in, say, 1969, Fianna Fáil would then need a different kind of leader, an inspirational one to restore them and lead them triumphantly back to power at the following election in 1974 or thereabouts. Dom allowed himself to think he might become this leader. All going well, he could end up Taoiseach at fifty-four, a perfect age for the job. Even thinking about it gave
him heartburn. To turn this ambition into a reality it would not be enough for him to traipse along as an averagely competent minister like so many of this lot. The thing to do was pull a rabbit out of the hat, something that would set him apart, make the whole Nation love him even more than the Party hacks did already. As the cabinet meeting continued to discuss banal details of 1916 commemorative events, Dom’s thoughts drifted about like the smoke from his colleagues’ pipes. Exactly what form might his rabbit take? What would his Big Idea be? He knew it was out there somewhere, waiting for him. As long as Lemass stayed put, he had time on his side.
*
The expression on Fr Mullaly’s face made Mr Cormac Kiely think of the celebratory excitement of the duet ‘We Did It’ from My Fair Lady. Needless to say, he cast the smiling parish priest as Colonel Pickering, with himself playing Professor Henry Higgins. The temporary partitions had been removed and the completed extension to the Church of Our Lady of Consolation could now be viewed from every angle. Cormac Kiely was confident that the snag list would be a short one. Next Sunday, Fr Mullaly had told him, the bunting would be out, the Papal Flag would fly alongside the tricolour, all local dignitaries, including the city’s recently appointed government minister, would be present and the Bishop would join with him and his curates in concelebrating the new vernacular mass to mark the successful completion of the church renovation. While Cormac Kiely fully recognised the value of a big finale, he also hoped that Fr Mullaly appreciated how deeply considered his design was, from a theological as well as an architectural viewpoint. He had done his homework thoroughly, assiduously studied relevant documents from Vatican II as well as drawing inspiration from Le Corbusier and Gibberd. He had eschewed entirely the cruciform shape of the old church, the hard lines and angles, the railings that copperfastened a rigid separation of Priest and People, replacing it with the softer embrace of a large octagon, full of stained glass in the brightest colours to suffuse the space with heavenly light. The seating flowed naturally from the pews in the old nave into the new extension, gathering in a circle round the altar area so the congregation would feel like guests at a feast. The freestanding altar was of granite, symbolising simplicity and strength. All these innovations were a source of deep pride to Cormac. From their earlier conversations he had reason to hope that Fr Mullaly would pick up on many of these subtleties. As the parish priest stepped on to the altar area he smiled at Cormac.
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