After watching Insurrection every night for six nights, Francis had changed his mind about his favourite 1916 leader. James Connolly was definitely the best. His hat was a bit like a cowboy hat. He led the charge when they attacked the General Post Office and he gave all the orders when they took it over. He was really brave and he got shot twice and, even after he couldn’t walk any more, he made them bring his bed to the most dangerous place so he could still help with the fighting. Because he was too sick to write, he asked this woman to type a letter for him. He thanked all the rebels and said well done to all the men and women for being so brave. When he said, ‘Never was a cause so grand,’ Francis heard sniffs behind him and looked around. Marian, who was doing the ironing while she watched, had put down the iron and was rubbing her eyes. Francis didn’t laugh at her because he was nearly crying himself. Why had Sister Goretti never told them all these things about James Connolly?
Tonight’s episode was the saddest of all because the English set the General Post Office on fire and the Volunteers had no chance any more. There was smoke and flames everywhere and all they could do now was try and escape. They all went running into a dark street. James Connolly had to be carried on a stretcher. Old Tom Clarke said goodbye to Patrick Pearse, who went back into the Post Office and stood all on his own with the burning building falling down around him. Then he bent his head down as if his heart was broken. For a second, Francis thought he was going to throw himself into the fire, even though he knew already that wasn’t how he died. He wondered if the real Patrick Pearse had thought about doing that.
After the episode ended, Francis couldn’t stop thinking about it. He’d felt like he was right there in the burning Post Office. Even though he knew they were all just actors, the same as in American pictures, it was different for some reason. But why? Maybe it was because of the way Insurrection had television reporters with microphones interviewing the rebels and the English, as if it was happening today and this was the news. On the first night he saw it, Francis had been completely confused because there were reporters in modern clothes talking to people from 1916 in old-fashioned clothes. But, bit by bit, he got used to this and now he thought it would be brilliant if television presenters really could go back in some sort of time machine and meet all sorts of people from the past. He’d like to do that.
It was great the way the actors looked exactly the same as the photographs on the poster in school: Tom Clarke, so old and white-haired, James Connolly with his round face and big moustache, Seán MacDermott’s sad eyes and Joseph Plunkett with those funny glasses on the end of his nose. Best of all, Francis found out that Patrick Pearse didn’t have a sty in his eye. There was nothing wrong with his eyes at all. He was exactly the way Sister Goretti talked about him, his face very serious all the time and he was always making long speeches. The actor spoke just like Francis imagined Pearse would speak. In the first episode when his mam saw him she said, ‘Oh, that’s Eoin O’Súileabháin. I love him, he has a beautiful voice.’ In the second episode, when the rebels took over the General Post Office, he went outside to say the Proclamation and Francis was able to recite the whole speech along with him. Silently. Now, even though he couldn’t wait for the next episode tomorrow night, he was sad, because he knew the ending already. The English would win and the leaders of the Easter Rising would be executed.
The strange thing was, lying in his top bunk later that night, thinking about all the people who died, he was most sad about Francis Sheehy-something. It was really unfair what happened to him. He didn’t fight anyone. He didn’t even have a gun. He just spoke up for himself and he was shot for it.
If Francis Sheehy-something had said nothing and gone home, he’d have been all right.
*
After hearing the depressing news about Miriam Hartnett, Baz Malloy could not stop thinking about her. He even considered not going to his friend Sheelagh’s for dinner that evening, but then decided that the combination of her famous beef in Guinness stew and the inevitable competing monologues of her usual gang might be a comfort and a distraction. It proved much harder than he thought, however, to dislodge Miriam from his mind. When Bob, who Sheelagh liked to call ‘my intermittent inamorata’, praised Baz for his fine work on Insurrection, it only served to remind him of that last night of production, which had been the first time he almost spoke to Miriam. As Bob moved swiftly from compliments to his real purpose in mentioning Insurrection, which was to attack it for not being ‘Irish’ enough – ‘The thing would have been much more authentic and moving as an Irish language drama or at the very least bilingual’ – Baz stopped listening, remembering instead how, as everyone was departing Studio One that January night in search of drink, giddy with a sense of achievement, Baz had lingered on the smoke-filled set, not from some sentimental reluctance to leave the production behind, but because he had spotted Miriam and others from the design department gathering props and clearing furnishings. Having missed one opportunity during lunch-break that day, he wondered if now was the time to talk to her. She moved about the set, delicately free-floating. Her loose top, gypsy skirt and full hair seemed all of a piece. The special-effects smoke hanging in the air created a mood of soft-focus enchantment. Unexpectedly, Miriam turned to walk in his direction with a pile of props in her arms. She would pass within inches of him. Baz managed a smile and she smiled back. Was it his imagination or did she slow down a little as if expecting him to speak? But he was unable to think of a single thing to say and so, still smiling, she flitted by. He turned and watched her disappear out of the studio.
A flapping arm pucked Baz from his lonely reverie. Jim, extravagant in word and gesture, was elaborating on why he hated the Abbey Theatre’s new building. Sheelagh, playing devil’s advocate, said that, in fairness, it was only just finished. It hadn’t even opened yet.
‘But Sheelagh, my love, have you seen it? It looks like a mausoleum, which might actually be apt, as it will house a company of dead actors.’
Jim’s unceasing soliloquy boomed on but not even his clarion tone could keep Baz from his sad obsession. He had allowed a second opportunity with Miriam to pass him by on a Saturday two months ago. After working on a Late Late Show, Baz and the crew had had a few drinks in hospitality and then, as happened so often, they’d ended up in a house in Donnybrook. He didn’t even know whose it was. Word had gone round in Madigan’s and everyone turned up with bags of booze. Baz, nudging through the crush, was surprised to see a very welcome face smiling up at him from a crowded couch. ‘Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown’ was playing so loudly that people either had to shout or not bother to talk at all. It made his night to see Miriam’s beautiful mouth shape, ‘Baz! How are you?’ Infuriatingly, there was no room on the couch, not even on the arm. He lifted his bottle in greeting instead and so did she. As he was considering his next move, a young cameraman, Brian, arrived at his side and started yabbering in his ear about how much he loved working in TV, especially live TV, and how all his pals were impressed that he actually worked on the Late Late Show. Baz hadn’t the heart to tell him to go away and, instead, it was Miriam who left. With one of the bastards sitting with her on the couch.
Baz was briefly distracted from the misery of this recollection by the sight of tall Peter, standing on his chair, swaying and wobbling as he repeated a filthy joke he had heard at this morning’s editorial meeting involving Archbishop McQuaid, an altar boy and a choc-ice. Peter’s outrageous stories normally made Baz laugh, but tonight he could do no more than affect an interest and, long before the punch line, his mind had drifted back to the last time he had seen Miriam, in the canteen less than three weeks ago. Noticing a free seat opposite her, he decided to seize the moment. Her smile and invitation to sit down seemed genuinely enthusiastic. So here they were. At last they might talk. As it happened, Baz mostly listened, but that was fine, too. Pure joy, actually. Having already been attracted to her looks and style, he was now seduced by her voice. It had the colour of Galway with none of its th
rowaway aggression. He also loved her attitude. Miriam told him she’d already discovered that television just wasn’t her bag. Great to have the regular few bob and all, but the beast was so all-consuming she had no head space left to do the stuff she was really into. Which was, you know, proper painting. She wanted get her hands dirty. Fly away and do nothing else. Was she pure mad, like? He said no, definitely not, and meant it. Even as Baz was formulating the precise words he would use to ask her out, Alf, Miriam’s department head, appeared out of nowhere. ‘I have to steal her from you, Baz.’ Why was his tone always so insinuating? ‘Miriam can you drag yourself away? Mini crisis in Studio Two.’
And that was the last time he saw her… How foolishly casual he had been to assume that other opportunities would arise, that they’d bump into each other around the studios, he’d spot her in Madigan’s, or they’d end up working on the same production.
Sheelagh was poking Baz in the ribs.
‘Baz, you work there, too. Do you agree with Deirdre or Eoin?’
Not knowing what Deirdre and Eoin were bellowing at each other about, Baz had no idea who to support. Neither, he suspected. If only to banish depressing thoughts, he attempted to tune in. Deirdre was quietly determined to make herself heard despite Eoin’s rasping heckles.
‘The uncomfortable truth is that making television programmes is actually very easy–’
‘Fucking reactionary bullshit!’
‘Most producers know they’re on to a handy little number and are just too lazy to rock the boat in any way, shape or form. There’s no conspiracy –’
‘What do you know, working in fucking light fucking entertainment –?’
‘– and that’s why, yes, that’s why most programmes are so bland.’
‘No! It’s because of censorship. The Broadcasting Authority is stuffed with government hacks and the executive is swarming with Knights of Columbanus. What you have is a planned Church/State pincer movement designed to crush free speech and hard questions and it’s the responsibility of all producers to fight back by any means possible.’
Baz wondered if there was any chance he could get drunk enough to pass out. Then the pain might go away. At Sheelagh’s table there was always no end of controversy, argument, meaningless shouting matches; talk, talk, talk; what the Irish were famous for, after all. But yet the few simple words to Miriam that might have made a difference had eluded him. Now it was too late. A few hours ago, running into Alf as he left Studio One, Baz had heard more wretched words.
‘Where will I find someone as talented as Miriam at such short notice? – Oh Baz, didn’t you know? I am surprised. She left us at the end of last week. Needed to go find herself in the wilds of Connemara. A cabin of clay and wattles, I presume.’ That infuriating relentless insinuating tone! ‘Unlike you and I, Baz, Miriam might be that rarity, a true artist.’ But then, as if only at that moment comprehending how genuinely Baz was affected by this news, Alf’s tone became surprisingly kind as he added: ‘I’m sure I can find her new address, if you want to try and contact her.’
Jim had fallen off his chair. Bob and Deirdre were trying to pull him up. Eoin was singing ‘Joe Hill’. Sheelagh asked Baz was he feeling all right – he seemed a bit lost in himself tonight? He said he was fine, just a bit whacked.
Fifteen: May 14th
Even the fact that the lorry wouldn’t start and had to be pushed didn’t dent Ann’s sunny mood on the morning of Francis’ First Holy Communion. Lily Duggan’s only boy, Tommy, across the green and Katy Tuite’s youngest, Jacinta, were also making their First Holy Communion, so the idea was that everyone would walk to the church together. But, what with one thing and another, by the time the Duggans and the Tuites were ready to go, the Strongs were not, which was typical, although to be fair to Fonsie, it wasn’t his fault this time. Ann had spent too much time making sure that Francis looked as good as she could make him and so wasn’t ready herself yet. She said, ‘We’ll just have to take that bloody lorry, God forgive me,’ and told Fonsie to tell her neighbours to go ahead and she’d see them at the church. She gave him two rosary beads in little purses for the children and warned him to be sure to tell Jacinta Tuite that she was looking lovely. As he went down the stairs, Ann called after him to find a rug to throw over the seat of the lorry to keep Francis’ suit clean.
Finally ready, the three of them sat in the lorry and the engine spluttered, but with no real intention of starting. It was quarter to eleven. Before Ann even opened her mouth to comment, Fonsie leapt out. She looked at Francis and automatically fixed his fringe. He seemed to be off in another world. Was he nervous? Was he praying? He had been very good but very quiet all morning. In the side mirror Ann saw Ritchie, Gussie and Martin come out of the house with Fonsie. Then Mr Reidy from next door appeared. They all went to the back of the lorry while Fonsie came to his door. Here we go, Ann thought. She had been through this many, many times. Fonsie said, ‘Right,’ and they all started to push. As the lorry moved, it slowly passed old Mr and Mrs Ryan, who were standing in their garden enjoying the free entertainment. Ann called out through the window, ‘Look at us in all our finery,’ and Mrs Ryan said, ‘Oh, I hope it starts, and don’t forget to bring Francis in to see us afterwards.’ The lorry was now moving fast enough for Fonsie to give it a go. He jumped in and threw it into gear. Ann held onto Francis with one hand and the door handle with the other as the lorry lurched and coughed and nearly got going, then died. Fonsie jumped out and shouted, ‘Straight away again.’ Ann looked at her watch, surprising herself that she was staying calm enough to work out that if it started this time they would still get to the church with a few minutes to spare. Lately, she had been more relaxed about lots of things. Dr Greaney said the Betaloc seemed to be working and had given her another prescription. Francis, who seemed to be enjoying the hullabaloo now said, ‘Will I get out and push?’ ‘And ruin your suit?’ Ann said. They were rolling now faster than before. Fair dues to Mr Reidy for coming out to help – he wasn’t always the friendliest neighbour. As they went past the grotto Ann blessed herself for good luck and Fonsie jumped in again. This time, after three big lurches, the engine roared and took off. In the side mirror she saw the lads standing on the road waving after them, laughing and gasping for breath.
As they were now on time, Ann made Fonsie park the lorry at the top of O’Donoghue Avenue out of sight of the church. She wasn’t going to scramble out of this old jalopy and fix herself in front of the whole parish. They would walk the rest of the way. She checked Francis’ hands, straightened his suit jacket, licked a handkerchief and wiped his chin, fixed his fringe again and then they were ready to walk on. Sister Goretti and Sister Pius were marshalling all the boys and girls outside the church. When Sister Goretti saw Francis approach she smiled and came to them. Ann could tell she was made up to see Francis. Such a lovely nun, so sweet and young, she found it hard to disguise the fact that he was her favourite.
‘Well now, here you are, Mrs Strong, Mr Strong. Are you all excited? And Francis, aren’t you looking handsome?’
‘Thank you, Sister.’
‘Now you leave him with us and get yourselves a good seat. The procession will be starting in a couple of minutes. Come with me Francis, there’s a nice little cailín I want you to meet.’
Even though it was Ann’s fifth time bringing a child to First Holy Communion, she loved it every time, and each new ceremony brought back memories of before. Once again a shiver of spontaneous happiness washed through her when the organ began and the line of children entered, each boy and girl holding hands, singing:
‘Oh Mary we crown you with blossoms today
Queen of the Angels and Queen of the May.’
The line of girls was a long white floating ribbon. Some of the dresses were exquisite; broderie anglaise was still a favourite, but the georgette was lovely too, and many of the veils sat on their little heads like wisps of cloud. God’s sweet angels. Of course a couple of stupid parents had put their little girls int
o full-length dresses, which just looked absolutely ridiculous. What were they trying to do, turn them into little women? As far as Ann was concerned, a Holy Communion dress should end just at the knee, with a white buckled shoe, ankle socks, a short delicate veil and a little handbag made from the same fabric as the dress to set it all off. And there were so many here today who were just perfect. How shy and innocent Marian had been when she made hers. Ann was eight months gone with Francis that day.
It wasn’t just that she had four sons, but Ann always thought the boys looked even more sweet and angelic than the girls. Maybe it was because she was so used to seeing them on the street rolling in dirt and roaring. Maybe it was because she had been washing her sons’ dirty underclothes for nearly twenty years. Maybe it was because so many innocent boys grew into drunken goats, but somehow, on this day, with their silly smiles, or solemn faces and their cheeks rubbed into a rosy shine, with their skinny white knees spotless and their brand-new suits in dark blue and dark green and charcoal and brown and the way they held their heads up and walked tall, somehow each of them seemed to Ann to become something else, no longer a little mammy’s boy and not yet a strapping lad, but some special angelic creature, a friend of Jesus. Maybe she just felt this more about Francis than her older sons. She had a feeling that this day was special for him in a way that was different from the others. Although maybe that was all in her head on account of what Mary Storan had said about him becoming a priest. Looking at him, with his eyes fixed on the altar as he passed by, he seemed much the same as the rest. She had chosen a very dark brown suit with a thread of green, neat and smart. His hair never looked right and he wasn’t as naturally handsome as Martin, who was growing up to be really good looking, but definitely Francis looked the best he could today. And so tall. No one would ever know that he was the only child there who wasn’t seven yet. She had warned him not to show off about that to anyone.
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