Francis went over to Ian and Sive. They were talking about a Feis and using words he didn’t really understand, but he figured out that both of them did Irish dancing and they’d won a competition last week for the two-hand reel. Maybe that was why Ian was having a party? Were all his other friends Irish dancers too? Francis asked Ian could he pick a record, and he put on ‘Happy Together’. After that Ian played ‘Penny Lane’ and then ‘Feelin’ Groovy’. Then his mother called them all downstairs. She put her arm around Ian’s shoulders and told the others to go into the dining room. That was when Francis got two shocks at the same time. A trifling one and a stupendous one.
The first was seeing all the adults in the room. He guessed that they were the mothers and fathers of the other boys and girls. Was he the only one here on his own? Then Francis saw a long table against the wall laden with topping treats. This wasn’t a shock, but what was hanging over the table left him astounded and dumbfounded. A long piece of coloured string was pinned to the wall at each end and, in between, gold letters hung from the string. They spelled out
HAPPY BIRTHDAY IAN 8 TO DAY
Ian’s father started clapping and everyone joined in as the door opened and Ian made an entrance, smiling, with his mother behind him, her hands still on his shoulders. Ian looked really chuffed at all the clapping and cheering. Francis’ mind was racing. Could it really be? Maybe today wasn’t his actual birthday. Maybe it was Friday or yesterday or tomorrow and they were just having the party today because it was Sunday. But he really hoped it was today. That would be like a fairy tale. They would be twins.
Ian’s father said, ‘Time for grub, help yourselves,’ and everyone went to the table. Francis wanted to talk to Ian straight away but his mother was with him, one hand still on his shoulder, asking him what he wanted to eat and telling him to hold his plate steady while she put things onto it. Whenever there was a party in Francis’ house his mam always had loads of food, but it wasn’t as fancy as this. There were no normal sandwiches, only long, skinny little sandwiches with no crusts. There was cooked ham but it was rolled up and stuck on a stick with a piece of pineapple. Hard-boiled eggs were cut in half with some kind of thick cream – like Chef salad cream, only nicer – on top in a spirally blob. There were small round pastries filled with what looked like pieces of chicken and mushrooms in cream. They were hot. And there was ordinary stuff as well, like sausage rolls and pieces of chicken in breadcrumbs and crisps and loads more. As Francis went round the table, filling up his plate, he started pretending to himself that this was all for him too. It was a double birthday party.
Holding his overflowing plate very carefully, Francis looked around for his friend. He wasn’t in the dining room any more, so Francis looked in the front room. He wasn’t there either but there were photographs of him everywhere in the room. One wall was completely covered with hundreds of medals, cups and trophies. Right in the middle of the wall there was a big photo of Ian in Irish dancing costume with his mother. They were both smiling and he was holding a trophy nearly as big as himself. Francis’ sister Marian had won a few cups and medals for Irish dancing but it was nothing compared to this. It was like the cave that Ali Baba entered. It was like the altar up at the Redemptorists. Francis sat on a pouf in a corner and ate, unable to take his eyes off the glittering wall. He had never seen Ian in his dancing costume before but, because of the way he dressed every day, he didn’t look so strange in a kilt. It was a kind of purple and over his shoulder was a cape the same colour, pinned to a black velvet jacket by a long pointy brooch with jewels on it. Ian must be a really brilliant dancer if he won so much.
A couple of times Ian’s father came in checking that everyone had enough food and drink. He seemed to be in charge of all that, and looked like he loved hopping around, joking and keeping busy. He saw that Francis’ plate was empty.
‘Is it time for a bit of dessert, ha? Come and have a gander?’ He winked. Francis liked Ian’s father. He followed him back to the dining room. There were four different desserts. There was red jelly with Neapolitan ice cream that was melting very fast, there was fruit cocktail, there were biscuits shaped like men with Smarties for buttons and, in a bowl, there was something chocolatey that looked like Instant Whip.
‘Help yourself, but remember, leave room for a bit of birthday cake.’
He went out to the kitchen and, while Francis was helping himself, Ian appeared again with his mother. She stopped to talk to another mother, stroking his hair all the time. Francis wanted to go over to Ian but he was bit scared of Mrs Barry. He looked up again at the hanging cards.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY IAN 8 TO DAY
And me, he thought.
Because no one else knew him, no one spoke to him, but Francis didn’t mind that because it meant he could watch everything as he ate his dessert. He noticed that Ian’s mother didn’t help with the food and drink. While his father came and went, clearing plates, bringing more food, filling people’s glasses and even lighting their cigarettes, Ian’s mother just talked to one person for a long time and then moved to someone else and started another long chat. Francis could tell that she was talking about Ian a lot of the time because she was always turning to look at him while she spoke and never stopped touching him. She held his hand, or gently rubbed his shoulders or stroked his hair or sometimes put an arm about his waist and pulled him closer. A couple of times, she brushed the back of her fingers against his cheek. Francis thought she must love him very much, but he wondered why Ian didn’t seem to mind that she never let go of him. If Francis’ mam was always touching him like that he’d be pulling to get away, but Ian just stood there smiling. Maybe he liked her doing that? When his father came and whispered something in her ear, Mrs Barry finally let go and followed Mr Barry into the kitchen. Ian walked across the room to Francis straight away.
‘So, Agent Strong,’ he whispered in an American accent, ‘have you seen any THRUSH spies lurking?’
Francis laughed. He pointed to a short fat woman sipping tea.
‘There’s our assassin, Agent Barry. She has a poison-tipped knitting needle in her handbag.’
‘She’s my grandmother, Agent Strong.’
‘Oh. Sorry about that, Chief,’ said Francis, just like Maxwell Smart. Then he spoke in his own voice. ‘Hey, how come you didn’t tell me the party was for your birthday?’
‘Didn’t I? I must have forgot.’
‘And is today your birthday?’
‘Yes.’
‘The 18th?’
‘Yes, why?’
So, it was so. He and his friend were born on the same day. Francis wanted more than anything to tell him now about this amazing thing. OK, he had promised his mam that he wouldn’t tell people it was his birthday, but this was different, wasn’t it? Surely it was all right to explain it to Ian? But what should he say? Should he just blurt out, ‘It’s my birthday too, we’re like twins.’ But would that sound mad? Maybe he should just say, mysteriously, ‘I’ve something to tell you later, Agent Barry. A secret.’ That didn’t sound right in his head either. Now that the time had come to speak, it was really hard to find the right words. The way Ian was looking at him made him feel – what did it make him feel? He remembered a word. Disconcerted.
‘Ian, your daddy’s going to bring the cake in now.’
His mother had appeared out of nowhere. Without looking at Francis, she pulled Ian away and, holding his hand, brought him to the other side of the room. Francis was certain now that she didn’t like him. Mrs Barry tapped a glass with a spoon until everyone stopped talking.
‘No, don’t worry, I’m not going to make a speech. It’s just that… it’s time for Ian’s birthday cake!’ And she called out ‘Brendan! We’re ready.’
The door opened and Ian’s father marched in, holding up a large square cake covered in pink and white cream with eight candles burning. He started singing ‘Happy Birthday to You’. Francis joined in enthusiastically and imagined that everyone was singing Happy Birthday to h
im as well. At the end Ian blew out the candles with one long breath. His mother held up her hand again.
‘Now, would you all like to see a dance from our birthday boy?’ Everyone murmured yes oh yes oh yes, as if this was what they had been waiting for all afternoon. Ian’s father was already at the stereo cabinet ready to start the music. ‘As you can see, he’s put the hard shoes on so you know it’s going to be a hornpipe.’ Ian stepped forward and, suddenly, Francis saw him straighten his back, lift his head and his eyes stared past him to the wall behind. He placed one foot forward. The music began. Ian waited a few seconds and then lifted off.
Francis had seen lots of Irish dancing, his mam loved watching it on the telly, and a couple of times she’d dragged him to a Feis to see Marian. He’d never bothered with it before, but now he was open-mouthed. How light Ian looked and strong at the same time, his whole body lifting in the air as easy as bouncing on a trampoline, his feet rocking over and back, landing on his toes, then clipclopping back on his heels, then kicking high, his back and shoulders straight with his neck stretched long and hands by his side like a young soldier! The crowd began to clap along and Francis joined in louder than anyone, lost in admiration of his friend’s talent. When the music ended Ian just smiled and his whole body relaxed. As everyone cheered, two of the girls, Sive and Jean, ran up to hug him. Francis had to stop himself doing the same.
*
It was after six o’clock and Francis knew he should be leaving even though he didn’t want to. His mam had told him to be home by half-six for his birthday tea. If only he could have ten minutes to talk to Ian on his own like at sos, but it was impossible when he was the centre of attention for everyone. Francis had taken his jacket off in Ian’s bedroom earlier. He went upstairs to collect it, glad to have a chance to see his room again before leaving. As he was going in, Ian’s father came out of another room wearing a coat and carrying a small suitcase. Francis suddenly felt guilty for no reason and his face went red. His voice stumbled.
‘I – I left my jacket. I ha-ave to go – to go home now.’
Ian’s father just smiled and said, ‘Work away.’ Francis went into the bedroom, keeping his head down as if he wasn’t allowed even to look around. He grabbed his jacket and followed Ian’s father downstairs.
Ian’s mother was waiting in the hall looking annoyed. Francis felt like he had done something wrong.
‘Right. You’re ready. Wait there, I’ll get Ian for you.’
She was speaking to Mr Barry, not him. She didn’t even look at him. She came back with Ian and he gave his father a big hug. Then, as if she only saw him for the first time, Mrs Barry suddenly started speaking to Francis. He didn’t know why.
‘Ian’s daddy has to go to Dublin. It’s his work. He has to go there quite a bit. It’s only for a couple of days. We won’t know it before he’s back, isn’t that right, Ian? No time to miss him, even. Just a pity he has to go now. His work starts very early tomorrow so he needs to be fresh –’
Ian’s father interrupted her with a kiss on the cheek.
‘I’d better head, or I’ll be another hour saying goodbye to that lot. See you Tuesday. Good luck, kid.’
He hoisted Ian high and squeezed him. After he left, Francis said, ‘Thanks very much for the party,’ to Ian’s mother but she didn’t seem to be listening to him. She was staring at the closed front door. Was she worried that Ian’s father had forgotten something? They heard the car reverse fast out of the drive. Francis said, ‘See you tomorrow,’ to Ian. He had decided that would be the best time to tell him the birthday story. During sos.
*
The next day, when Francis saw Ian’s mother waiting at the main gate, he was glad he hadn’t said anything to Ian after all. He nearly had. A few times. Watching him run to meet her, Francis skulked even closer to the wall than usual so she wouldn’t spot him. All day he hadn’t been able to make up his mind what way he should tell Ian about how they were sort of twins – as if it was a funny little story, or an astounding discovery, or a special secret. Then something else came into his head too. Ian would definitely tell his mother the story, and she didn’t like Francis, so what would she say about it? Would she say he was being very sneaky coming to the party like that and keeping his own birthday a big secret? Would she ask what was wrong with him that he wasn’t having his own party? She’d say that was a bit queer. His mam was always telling Francis, ‘Don’t let people make a fool of you.’ What if Ian’s mother said the same thing to Ian, ‘Don’t let that sneaky boy Francis make a fool of you’? And then maybe she wouldn’t let Ian be his friend any more. Maybe it was better to say nothing.
Francis crept towards the main gates. His eyes followed Ian, bouncing away hand in hand with his mother. Sometime. He would definitely find a way to tell him sometime.
*
Baz Malloy had the Minister for Education in his viewfinder. Medium close-up. He looked relaxed as he listened to an enraged Oliver J.
‘I want to direct the attention of the Minister to “Guests of the Nation”, one of the stories in this collection. On page 194 there is a certain word; I will not use it on television. It’s a word beginning with B.’
Baz knew the whole country would now be wondering which ‘B’ it was. Bastard? Bollix? Bugger? Surely not blowjob?
‘Now, this type of language might be expected in a low-class pitch-and-toss school, but should not be contained in a book for young children, many of whom are in their first years of preparation for, perhaps, a religious life, or to take their place in whatever profession they are going to follow.’
The Minister did not interrupt the tirade, he just shook his head, and pursed his lips. Baz had to admire how well Dom understood television. He knew that the director would not be able to resist cutting to him for a reaction shot. Sure enough, in his headphones, he heard Eoin call.
‘Coming to camera two – and two.’
The red light flashed on Baz’s camera, and the Nation saw the Minister shake his head and purse his lips, more in sorrow than in anger. Poor Oliver J, he’s completely out of touch, the gesture said.
‘And back to camera one.’
Once the shot returned to Oliver J, the Minister stopped the head-shaking routine. The cute hoor knew exactly when he was on the air, Baz thought. By contrast his Blueshirt opponent seemed far too loud and a bit wild-eyed.
‘They say teaching has to be modernised, but if this is the type of language to be used in our school textbooks, I am sorry that we did not remain old-fashioned!’
The Minister smiled towards the presenter, his voice sweet reason.
‘Well, John, first of all, I should like to point out that in this new school text, Exploring English, edited by Augustine Martin, there are, apart from Seán Ó Faoláin and Frank O’Connor, such authors as O. Henry, James Thurber, Saki, G. K. Chesterton, W. Somerset Maugham, Katherine Mansfield, V.S. Pritchett, William Golding, Liam O’Flaherty, Bryan MacMahon, Mary Lavin, James Plunkett, Brendan Behan and Brian Friel. I think the selection is a good one.’
It was impressive; the long list of authors tripped off his tongue without hesitation or reference to notes. The viewers might well think the Minister knew them all personally.
‘Frank O’Connor’s “Guests of the Nation”, the short story the deputy is so critical of, was selected by a committee consisting of representatives of all the managerial and teachers’ associations of the secondary and vocational schools, persons distinguished for their knowledge of English literature and highly experienced in the teaching of it. As to why the members decided to include this particular story, I would guess that the merits of the story as a piece of literature outweighed the few vulgar expressions introduced by the author into the dialogue, presumably in order the better to portray the character of the speaker.’
Baz could hear in his headphones murmurs of approval from the control room. On this issue at least, the director and producer clearly thought the Minister was on the right side. The side of Art and C
ulture. New Ireland versus Old. So why did Baz forebear to cheer for this man of the sixties against the reviled backwoodsman of the forties, Oliver J, the demented but wily old vote-catcher, intent on impressing the Creeping Jesus vote.
‘The language in some of these short stories is not suitable for children of twelve and thirteen years. For example “The Trout”. I refer to page 170 of the book. There is a paragraph there which I won’t subject the viewers to, but which I think is most suggestive. It is a paragraph which should not be put in any short story which is read in schools.’
‘I don’t know whether Deputy Flanagan has read the whole of this story –?’
‘“The Trout”? As I said, very suggestive. I did not like it.’
‘Well then, the saying “Honi soit qui mal y pense” was never so appropriate. Does the Deputy, if he has read the story, realise that it is his own vivid and excitable imagination –’
‘No. Parents have written to me.’
‘If he had read the entire story he would know that this young girl goes into a tunnel to catch a trout and not to catch anything else. If these ideas which the Deputy is putting into Irish minds are all he can find in Seán Ó Faoláin’s “The Trout”, which many regard as Ó Faoláin’s finest story, then I can only say, “God help us.”’
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