Unspoken

by Gerard Stembridge

  ‘I take on board everything that Jack and others have had to say, but surely it would be remiss of us not to acknowledge that the reaction of the press and public has been very good.’

  By Jesus, Dom thought, the Lizard has timing all right. Charlie’s tone was languid, disinterested, but all the more effective for that. Having kicked the ball high in the air, he let faithful Brian off the leash to chase it.

  ‘Very good? You couldn’t buy coverage like that. Three days of it. The editorial in the Irish Times was practically euphoric. The teachers’ unions have all come out in favour. This is political gold, lads. We’d be out of our minds to turn around now and –’

  ‘No one said it wasn’t a popular idea. That isn’t the point –’

  George got no further. Charlie’s interruption was imperious.

  ‘Precisely. Popularity, important though it is, is not the point. This is entirely a question of principle. Do we, as a cabinet, as a Party, believe in this policy? The primacy of cabinet government has been emphasised here today. So, leaving aside for a moment the mechanics of how this policy came to public attention, shouldn’t we, rather, be asking ourselves a more fundamental question? Do we think free education is the right thing for the children of the Nation?’

  Now Lemass spoke.

  ‘Charlie is right. It is a fundamental question. Especially, if I may say, in the year that’s in it.’

  The 1916 card. Laid on the table quietly and decisively. The fiftieth anniversary. Honouring the dreams of dead heroes. From that moment the game was won. There was more spluttering, of course, but leavened now with references to how meritorious the scheme was and how impressive the public enthusiasm for it. By the time Lemass asked Dom to make his contribution there was only a house of straw left to blow down. Dom was gentle. He tossed his critics a mea culpa about his capriciousness, his injudiciousness, two of his many flaws which little by little he sought to mend. Perhaps his enthusiasm for the cause had made him forgetful of proper procedures. The opportunity to get one over on the Blueshirts which, he hoped his colleagues would concede, was most certainly what had happened, had perhaps been too tempting. It would be a terrible pity if such excellent political advantage were to be lost by backing down now. Especially as the voters seemed so enthusiastic for the scheme. He held up his sheaf of letters and telegrams. And after all, the whole idea of free education had been discussed in the department before – Dom had the document with him as it happened – and, in principle, had met with the approval of his predecessor. He turned to Dr Pat who, somehow, had managed not to speak throughout the discussion.

  ‘So, in fact, Paddy should get a lot of the credit for this policy. He would have introduced something similar to my scheme had he continued as Minister for Education. In the end it was purely a question of timing, isn’t that right, Paddy?’

  What sinful pleasure it gave Dom to force Dr Pat to agree with him while silently ramming home the message: ‘You talked about it, Paddy-boy. I did it.’

  Lemass summed up.

  ‘We all agree that announcing policy in the way Dom chose to do is not acceptable. I think there is also general agreement that his scheme is one that meets with our approval and, it seems overwhelmingly, that of the general public. However, none of that matters if there is no money to pay for it. So, Jack, are you saying that it’d be impossible for Finance to fund this scheme?’

  The framing of the question was sheer genius. What could Jack say?

  ‘No… No. I’m not saying it’s impossible. I’ll have to look at the costs and –’

  ‘Then let’s see how much we can spare. Dom, can you get your estimates over to Jack as quickly as possible? Is everyone happy with that?’

  No dissenting voice. It was done. Lemass had played a blinder. Dom was aware that all he had to do now was squeeze as much moolah as he could out of Finance, charm the bishops and the heads of the Religious Orders, and make sure that the schools could handle all the extra pupils that would come pouring in next September. How did that song go? We can work it out.

  *

  The meeting room in the Mechanics Institute on Hartstonge Street was high-ceilinged and its large sash windows needed repair, so it was always cold, even on the mildest evening. Eight women faced each other, four on either side of a two-bar electric fire. They sewed, knitted, crocheted and chatted. At one end of the group, Mrs Hoare was operating a Singer, their only electric sewing machine. There was a large work table at the other end. This was where Ann Strong spread out the gorgeous silk outer skirt of a wedding dress and considered how best to cut it up.

  Fonsie’s sister Marg had felt sorry for Ann when she heard that it had rained almost the whole week in Ballybunion and that, really, it hadn’t been a proper holiday at all this year. In fact, in many ways it had been worse than being at home, because the children had to be kept amused morning, noon and night. That was why she suggested that Ann come along with her to the Redemptorist Foreign Missions weekly sewing group. Marg thought that at least it would be a break from the young ones for a few hours. A bit of a night out. She didn’t put it that way to Ann, of course. Instead she talked about the good work the group did, making the most beautiful vestments for the brave, hard-working missionaries out in Africa and the Philippines. Women with Ann’s sewing skills were hard to find, Marg said. When Ann protested that it had been years since she had done any sewing, her sister-in-law said then wasn’t it about time she started again and reminded her of the gorgeous dresses she used to make for Marian and her own Mary when they were children. Ann agreed to give it a go.

  Within a few weeks she was loving it so much that she wouldn’t know what to do with herself on a Tuesday night if it wasn’t on. It brought back to her how soothing and relaxing sewing was. The more delicate and intricate the work, the better Ann liked it. Priests’ vestments were a challenge, and old Mrs Hoare, who had supervised the group for years, constantly emphasised how vital it was that, no matter in what wild part of the jungle he found himself, the missionary priest should be able to celebrate Mass with proper dignity, which meant having all the correct ceremonial clothing. He needed albs and stoles and chasubles and surplices. Making an alb was the simplest, Ann could run one up on the Singer in a very short time, but stoles and chasubles were a different matter. Silk was much more delicate and expensive and so required the most careful handling. Very few of the women had the patience and precision to hand-sew in gold thread, tiny crosses, leaf patterns and sacred symbols. Any slip and the work done would have to be painstakingly unravelled and begun again. Sometimes a simple mistake rendered the garment unusable. It was Mrs Hoare’s firm view that no missionary should be expected to celebrate the holy sacrifice of the Mass wearing flawed or substandard vestments. Marg, who had no talent for sewing and generally confined herself to knitting woolly jumpers, hats and gloves for the regular Sales of Work that raised money to buy material for vestments, was delighted when, on the first night, Mrs Hoare whispered to her, ‘Your sister-in-law is a very talented seamstress.’ After only a few weeks she began to trust Ann with the most complicated work of all – the chasuble.

  Tonight she had given her the old wedding dress to see what vestments could be made from the material. People often offered to donate old clothing to the Foreign Missions Sewing Group but Mrs Hoare generally turned them down. The group was not, she would observe in private, a dumping ground for people’s old rags. The only garments even remotely suitable for making vestments tended to be ladies’ evening gowns or cloaks. Wedding dresses were ideal, because so much silk and linen went into their making, but they were hard to come by, so it was important that, when the sewing group received one, the best use was made of it. Ann could tell straight away that it would be easy to get as many as five surplices out of the underskirts, but the silk outer skirt presented a problem. There might be just enough in it for one chasuble, but only if she did her calculations very carefully and made no mistakes whatsoever. Ann loved the challenge of making something out
of very little and knew what pleasure it would give her to see this old skirt end up as a gorgeously embroidered and braided chasuble worn by a missionary celebrating Mass in some poor little foreign village. She had often seen, in the Irish Messenger of the Sacred Heart magazine, photos of priests in spotless white vestments, surrounded by smiling beautiful little black children. It pleased her to think that, in a small way, she might contribute to a scene like that.

  Ann was so caught up in her wedding dress problem that for once she took no part in the general chat that was normally such an enjoyable part of the evening. She kept half an ear open and smiled when, as usual, Mrs Liddy spent ages explaining to everyone, in her usual slow voice, what had happened in the latest episode of The Riordans, not realising that they had all seen it and didn’t need to be told. Ann worked out that she needed to cut the dress into six pieces but it had to be done a particular way and there was no room for error. It should then be possible to restitch the pieces to make the basic chasuble. She was marking out the six pieces, when she heard Iza Clifford’s voice calling her name.

  ‘Ann, Ann Strong, are you listening to me? Did you see it?’

  ‘Sorry, Iza. See what?’

  ‘Us on the telly. They showed the Crescent below and the CBS as well.’

  ‘No. When was this?’

  ‘Tonight. On the news.’

  Ann was very surprised. The town was hardly ever seen on television, let alone on the news.

  ‘On the news? Why?’

  ‘On account of the Minister for Education coming from here.’

  Iza Clifford’s knitting needles always seemed to click along in time with her speech. Clickety clickety clickety… ‘She wasn’t listening to me. You hear didn’t a word of what I was saying, Ann, sure you didn’t?’ … clickety clickety clickety… ‘They had pictures of the minister walking along by Crescent College – you know, just around the corner from us here. Rain pouring down, of course, it looked miserable altogether. Honest to God, the one time they show us on the telly and the place looks desperate’… clickety clickety clickety… ‘Next thing, there he was, coming out the gates of the Christian Brothers. I was just saying to the girls, my youngest is going there at the moment, but he’s doing his Inter Cert next June so this new scheme the Minister is going on about will be no good to me’… clickety clickety clickety… ‘and Nora was saying it was the same for her. She has nobody any more and Marg said the same – her last left in June – but Jacinta has two coming up who’ll be in secondary in the next few years, so she might get something out of it, at least’… clickety clickety clickety… ‘and I was just asking if you had anyone and Marg said you have three. So, is that right? Three, is it?’

  Ann had no idea what Iza was on about. Three what? What scheme? It was hard enough trying to concentrate on the job she was doing, but Iza Clifford was looking at her, waiting for an answer. Marg seemed to understand her confusion.

  ‘I told Iza you have three children still at school.’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right, Iza, three.’

  ‘Well, you’ll do well out of it, so.’

  Once again Ann hadn’t the remotest what Iza was on about. Do well out of what? When Mrs Hoare spoke, it only added to her confusion.

  ‘Well now, Iza, none of us doubt the Minister’s good intentions. He’s a fine man and we’re all proud to see a local man in such a high position, but Father Thornton was saying to me this morning that he may be missing an important point and it’s this; not everyone is suited to secondary education. There may be a danger with this scheme, that we’d only encourage children who won’t get any benefit from it to abuse it and then where will we be? I thought this was a very thoughtful point from Father Thornton.’

  Ann knew that all the women loved Father Thornton because, even though he was very intelligent and devout, he was great sport as well. Marg had told her they always had a great laugh at Christmas when he brought them to the Redemptorist community parlour for tea and biscuits to thank them for their work throughout the year. With Father Thornton supporting Mrs Hoare’s side of the argument, Ann was very surprised that Iza Clifford did not let it go at that.

  ‘Still an’ all, it’ll save poor people a lot of money. I paid out thirty-five pounds last year for Peadar’s fees. If that scheme was going already I’da saved all that. Think what I could have bought with thirty-five pounds.’

  Ann wondered was she hearing properly. Was there some scheme to get rid of school fees?

  ‘With three of them in secondary, Ann there will save herself a load every year. Sure what could be wrong with that?’

  Silence. Iza was staring at Mrs Hoare. All the other women now looked towards her. Ann felt she should explain that not all her three children were in secondary school yet, but she was afraid to add to the tension. The clicking had stopped. Mrs Hoare took her foot off the pedal of the Singer and turned to face Iza. Ann could tell from her voice that she didn’t like being spoken back to.

  ‘Of course it’s a very well-intentioned scheme, Mrs Clifford. I have no disagreement with you there. But remember that the priests and brothers and the nuns already keep a very close eye on all their pupils right through primary school, so when the time comes to go on to secondary, they know the cleverest ones and recommend them for scholarships. If a child from a poor family really deserves to continue his education, parents won’t be asked to pay for it. Father Thornton assured me that this system works very well and it would be a pity to change it.’

  Surely Iza Clifford wouldn’t keep arguing after hearing all that? Mrs Liddy suddenly jumped in to say wasn’t it great to have someone from the town on the telly all the same. The only other local they ever saw regularly was Terry Wogan, who was very good, at least in Mrs Liddy’s opinion. Apart from him, the Dublin and Cork crowd had it all wrapped up, would the girls agree? All the women quickly joined in a pleasant conversation about about which TV presenters they liked and didn’t like and the clicking of knitting needles began again.

  Ann turned back to her task, but she was still trying to work out exactly what Iza and Mrs Hoare had been talking about. She should try and pay more attention to the news. If she understood them correctly, then did this scheme they were talking about mean that she wouldn’t have to pay fees for Marian, or for Martin, who was starting secondary next year? Could that really be true? She had already been thinking about whether it was worthwhile letting poor Martin go on at all. Maybe Father Thornton and Mrs Hoare were right and some children were better off not going to secondary school? But if there was going to be no fees then shouldn’t she give him a chance at least? See what happened. As he got older he might get sense and knuckle down. And Marian? With no fees maybe – Ann didn’t even want to think about it in case it wasn’t true – maybe she’d get her wish and go on and do her Leaving Cert. The first one in the family. No. It couldn’t be true. She must have heard it wrong. For a start, surely an intelligent woman like Mrs Hoare wouldn’t be against a scheme if it was as good as that? There must be some catch to it, but she didn’t dare ask now in case she started Iza and Mrs Hoare arguing again. She’d find out from Fonsie – he might have heard something. Ann looked at the silk skirt spread out on the table. Better get on with this. She picked up her scissors and stared at the markings. No room for error. With a firm grip and steady hand, she began to cut.

  Nineteen: November 5th

  Dom was thinking about Lemass, the depths and layers of him, the power of his inpenetrable silence. Had his forty-five years in politics made him this way or had he always been such a man? No one had seen this shock coming. No one. Suddenly an announcement. Out of nowhere. An Taoiseach was stepping down, making way. Not in months but in days. Why? Had he even discussed it with Dev or Frank or any of the old lads? The word was he had not. So why? His leadership was unquestioned, his power undiminished. In the days that followed, Dom’s sobriety had been tested as he’d ricocheted between disbelief, frustration, anger, and then, most forcibly and sentimentally, a kind o
f grief, like Simon Dedalus and the other fellah, Casey, in Portrait of the Artist, weeping for Parnell, crying out for their poor dead king. Dom had never before felt such empathy with the pain Joyce described in that Christmas dinner scene. Then, awestruck at the realisation, it had dawned on him exactly why his wily old boss had wanted him to act so quickly on his free education scheme; to force the issue the way he had. Of course. It was because he already intended to step down and he wanted to ensure the scheme got underway before he left. Had Lemass put himself out to do that because he liked the idea so much, or was it pure respect for Dom? Whichever it was, his adoration of the old man intensified. Nothing would ever be the same without him. Who could match him?

  Yet as the scramble to choose a new leader began, Dom had acted just as everyone presumed he would and supported Charlie against George, becoming his de facto campaign manager. Of course, the more complex truth was that while he had little time for George, it did not follow that his heart was wholly with the Lizard. His heart, in truth, was as good as broken.