Unspoken

by Gerard Stembridge

  This morning Baz had read about young people in Monterey enjoying an open air lovein over the weekend. Meanwhile, on national television, two leading politicians were having a coy debate about whether it was suitable for teenagers to read an O’Faoláin short story that referred to a young girl’s sexual awakening in a way that, if Baz recalled it correctly, was so subtle and tasteful as to be virtually opaque. It was profoundly depressing. Why was he contributing in any way to this nonsense? It always bored and frustrated him to work on discussion programmes like 7 Days; radio with illustrations. He didn’t have to move his camera for the entire programme. All that was required of him was to offer either a two shot or – change lens and pan slightly – a single. If he were to lock off the camera on this nicely framed shot of the Minister and sit down to have a smoke, no one would notice. But the reason for his frustration right now was not egotistical; it wasn’t that he felt his amazing talents were underused. That would not matter to Baz if the programme content was genuinely challenging, the discussion truly cutting-edge, if it had the potential to change something. But this farce of a fake controversy? A crude word in a Frank O’Connor story? When a whole society needed waking up?

  ‘I know that Deputy Flanagan possibly has ambitions in another sphere and that perhaps he hopes one day to be leader of the Knights of Columbanus –’

  ‘The Minister is –’

  ‘– I did not interrupt you. As far as I’m concerned, John, Deputy Flanagan is quite entitled to aspire to such a great office, though anyone using the Catholic Church for his own material or other advancement makes me vomit…’

  Baz looked hard at his viewfinder. Who was this man Dom really? He seemed to hold all the right views, say all the modern things. He was the man who was bringing free education to the children, which was, in Baz’s opinion, the most important social advance in the country since he had returned, the one inspired initiative to balance so much failure and inaction. No longer the boastful, arrogant drunk he had encountered all those years ago, could the Minister really be the man the country was crying out for? Its Kennedy? Did he have a bigger better vision to offer? Was he truly worthy of respect? Baz wished he could see behind those smiling eyes.

  Scarcely conscious of what he was doing, Baz began to track in very slowly, as though creeping up on the Minister. His face grew larger and larger in the viewfinder.

  ‘I think the ordinary, reasonably minded person who has read this wonderful story by Seán O’Faoláin would not have the slightest qualm of conscience about letting a child read it.’

  Baz stared intently at a close-up which was now so big, only Dom’s nose and eyes filled the screen. And, at first, behind those jesting eyes Baz saw… nothing. Was there nothing haunting this man, no vision driving him on, no ultimate goal? Could it really be egotistical pleasure and purposeless ambition? A man who just liked winning, who loved the game? A man for whom putting one over on a pathetic old Blueshirt in a pointless debate was as worthwhile as anything else he might do? If something visionary was achieved along the way, well then, that was fine, but no more than a little extra jam on his bread. The longer Baz stared at the big close-up however, the black hole behind the superficial sparkle of those eyes resolved into something harder: an arrogant predatory stare. What Baz saw brought to the surface of his consciousness an anger he had been nursing for some time. What was he doing in this place? Had he been a fool to come home?

  Baz felt a hand squeeze his forearm tight. He turned away from the viewfinder to see an anxious Gavin indicating the transmission monitor. Baz was shocked to see that he had tracked in so far that the tip of his camera lens was peeping into the on-air shot. Messy. Only now, as if the volume had been suddenly ramped up, did he hear the rasping in his head phones. How long had the director been screaming?

  ‘Baz, Baz what are you doing? What’s the fancy track-in for? This is politics not some fucking drama!!! A simple MS. That’s all I want!’

  Baz pulled back quickly to his original position and framed the Minister once again in a polite unquestioning mid-shot. He looked over at Gavin to reassure him that his little crisis moment had passed.

  ‘I respectfully ask the Minister one question: was it not possible to get, out of all the short stories written by all the great writers of our time, stories for our Intermediate Certificate English that would not be as suggestive as those contained in this book? It is for parents to decide what is best for their own children. I know there are parents who view this book with the gravest concern because of the language contained in it.’

  It was clear what was wrong. There was no mystery. Baz was just tired out, television had tired him out. Five years confined in studios, weaving his camera around dramas, entertainment shows, current affairs debates – had it changed or even affected anything? Weren’t the same shysters still running the show? Had he wasted his time coming back to Ireland? Baz needed to get out of the studio into the open air. Do something else. Look at his own country again. He thought of Miriam Hartnett, as he had done so often in the last year. She had done the right thing and dropped out. Baz made a decision.

  ‘We’re nearly out of time, Minister. Last word to you.’

  ‘We all know that five or ten years from now, world television, to which nothing will be sacred, will be thrown open to us from one or many stations in the sky. It may have seemed to the committee that the responsible milieu of the classroom is, next to the home, the best place to prepare the pupils for what we must expect in the world of such open communication that is coming.’

  The victorious Minister and his human punch-bag both smiled as the programme theme played. As soon as the studio lights dimmed, Baz pulled his headphones off and, without saying good night to his crew, walked away quickly. It was part of the protocol of Gavin’s job to shake hands with the guests and tell them what a splendid discussion it had been but, instead, he ran after his colleague and, in the corridor outside the studio, called after him.

  ‘Baz, Baz. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m getting out of here, Gav.’

  ‘Sure. Are you going to Madigan’s? I have to be somewhere, but I can have a quick one with you if there’s anything you need to –’

  ‘No Gavin, I’m not getting out of the building. I’m getting out. Leaving. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘You mean… your job?

  ‘Exactly.

  ‘When did you – when did this –’

  ‘Oh, about three minutes ago. It feels good dearheart, believe me.’

  *

  They lay on the floor in Gavin’s flat. ‘Waterloo Sunset’, the last song on side two, was coming to an end. In paradise. Their lovemaking had lasted almost one side of the album Brendan bought him. He was clinging to Gavin now, fiercely, trying to escape into him, curl up in some place of safety and rest, as if terrified that, should he let go, he would fall into some deep canyon, down, down, like one of those cartoon characters, growing smaller and smaller until finally disappearing, with only a sound effect and a puff of smoke to indicate that he had hit rock bottom. It was always the same pattern, this little lost boy routine. Tomorrow a different Brendan would wake early, leap from the bed, hum his way around the kitchen making breakfast and, as soon as they had eaten, tootle off with barely a hug. Goodbye until the next time he came to Dublin. Which visit Gavin, stupidly, would yearn for.

  ‘A strange thing happened at work tonight.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ Not interested.

  ‘Baz Malloy, a friend of mine. I’m sure I’ve mentioned his name. Cameraman.’

  ‘Mmmm, rings a bell.’ A lie. Still not interested.

  ‘At the end of the programme he tells me he’s going to leave. He said he’d made up his mind a few minutes before, literally. Just like that. He’s been there since the station started. He’s probably the best cameraman in the place and, suddenly, he’s giving it all up.’

  Brendan didn’t seem to realise he was supposed to respond.

  ‘What do you make of that, Bren?’r />
  ‘Hm? Well… I don’t know… fair dues, I suppose.’

  ‘Would you ever do it?’

  ‘Leave my job? Sure, if I got a better offer.’

  ‘No, I mean – Baz didn’t get a better offer. He’s just getting out in order to… to find something else, something better for himself maybe. I’m not sure if he even knows what.’

  Silence. Even though Gavin had a very good idea what message the silence was intended to convey, he decided he would not shut up.

  ‘Would you ever do that? You know, I don’t just mean your job, but would you ever… leave…’ – he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘your wife.’ – ‘… I don’t know. Whatever. Start all over again.’

  He felt Brendan’s lips kiss his chest and heard a little mock yawn.

  ‘Too tired for talk. Ask me tomorrow.’

  ‘Waterloo Sunset’ faded, and there was the usual few seconds of crackle before the needle lifted. Then silence.

  Twenty-two: September 30th

  ‘Did you close the door properly?’ Since Ann had splashed out on a fridge a couple of weeks ago, Fonsie had said the same thing to the children over and over.

  ‘Yes’ Francis said.

  ‘Well, check to make sure. You know it doesn’t work if you don’t close the door properly.’

  Francis did one of his big sighs and checked the fridge door. Marian said, ‘Dad, tell him to shake the milk before he takes the cap off, he’s always robbing the cream off the top.’

  Fonsie took the bottle of milk from Francis and gave it a good shake. The best thing about having a fridge was the cold milk on cornflakes and this morning, because it was his first day back delivering coal after the summer, Fonsie had time to enjoy his cornflakes. Ritchie was gone to work long ago, Gussie was asleep because he was on the evening shift so, after Marian, Martin and Francis were packed off to school, he brought Ann her tea and then relaxed with his own cuppa in the quiet of an empty scullery. This put him in fine form by the time he left to load up the lorry at Tedcastles and head towards Sixmilebridge. With the autumn cold beginning to bite, he had plenty of orders. It would be a long hard day, to be sure, but he could once again take his own time and choose his own route, not like the summer job at O’Neill’s. And there was no one shouting orders. Delivering coal he encountered decent people pleased to see him. And, driving from cottage to farm, he could enjoy the peaceful silence in the back roads and lanes of the county.

  Ann and the children were on his mind as he trundled along and, in particular, thinking about his only girl, Marian, made the time slip by very pleasantly. It had given him a great lift to see how made up she was when he and Ann had told her a few weeks ago that, on account of not having to pay school fees any more, if she did well enough in her Inter Cert next June then, as far as they were concerned, she could stay on and do her Leaving Cert. If that was what she wanted. Fonsie knew well that of course it was what she wanted. Marian loved school. She was delighted at this news and promised them that she’d work really hard and get good results. Just do your best, they had told her. Since then, getting her to take her head out of the books had been the hard part. Ann said this morning she hoped that Marian wasn’t going to start using study as an excuse to avoid doing her share of the housework, but Fonsie was sure she’d never do anything like that.

  *

  By the time she got the dinner up for Marian, Martin and Francis, Ann wasn’t remotely hungry, but she put a small piece of liver on a plate with some mash and sat down, more to take the weight off her feet than anything. She couldn’t help looking at Martin more than the other two. Was it her imagination or was he gone quiet lately? She still didn’t know how well he was settling in to secondary school. Whenever she asked him how he was getting on he just said ‘grand’ without really looking at her. So far she hadn’t made a big issue of it. There had been enough trouble getting him in there and she knew he’d been mortified that day when she dragged him down to the school, but hadn’t it worked out? Hadn’t they got to meet the minister and hadn’t he made sure that Martin and those other boys were treated fairly?

  Ann was a bit mortified herself now, remembering how she’d been like a demon that morning when, out of the blue, the letter from the Brother Superior arrived, saying that although Martin had passed the entrance exam for secondary school, unfortunately there was no place available for him at CBS. The school wished him the best of luck and hoped he would find a place elsewhere. The bare-faced cheek. She’d waved the letter in poor Fonsie’s face.

  ‘What are we going to do about this? If he’s passed his exams why isn’t there a place for him? How do they expect him to find another school and it only a week to the end of the holidays? I thought he was supposed to get free education and now the Brothers won’t even let him in the school.’

  At first, when Fonsie said he’d write to the school as soon as he got home from work, that seemed good enough, but as the morning passed she had kept picking up the letter and reading it again, making herself more agitated. The letter said Martin had passed his entrance exam, so why wasn’t he entitled to a place in the school?

  It was when the children came in for dinner and she looked at them sitting together, just like today, that her rage really boiled over. Marian and Francis were all set to go back to school next week and poor Martin would be left out in the cold. What was he supposed to do? Ann had hoped secondary school would be a whole new start for him and he really seemed to be looking forward to it. It was discrimination, that’s what it was. She made her mind up there and then. She would go down to the school and talk to the Brother Superior or one of the Brothers. Ann got her coat and scarf and Martin’s coat.

  ‘Marian, clear up and do the dishes. Come on, Martin. Francis, you get out in the fresh air and don’t be hanging round the house getting in everyone’s way.’

  Martin didn’t know what was going on, but he could tell from the way his mam shoved on his coat that it must be trouble. Where was she taking him? As she pulled him out the door he tried to think what had he done? There were a few things. His mam didn’t say a word, but she wouldn’t let go of his hand and she had that look on her face that made him really nervous. As they got near the grotto she dragged him across the road, heading straight for the Phelans’ house. Oh shit! Up in Baker’s field one evening Antoinette Phelan had pulled down her knickers and let Martin, and Malachy Casey, and Tony Hartigan see her gowl. Had she told on them? She couldn’t have, she couldn’t have! If she had, Martin wouldn’t be walking with his mam now, he’d be dead already. She’d have just killed him stone dead. When his mam walked past the Phelan’s house and round the corner to the bus stop, Martin was relieved but still confused, because now she smiled at him and at the same time looked like she was going to start crying. She fixed his hair in a nice way, not the way she usually did, dragging at it. What was going on? His mam said nothing and Martin didn’t know what to say.

  Ann was in such a temper at this stage that she wasn’t one bit afraid of meeting Brother Scully or any of them. It wasn’t fair. That’s what she was going to say to those Brothers. It just wasn’t fair and she wasn’t going to let her child be made dirt of. As the bus passed the school, she was surprised to see a crowd of people at the main gates. She held Martin’s hand getting off the bus and hurried back towards the school. As they got closer, Ann could see that the crowd standing at the gates seemed to be all women and some children. No men. She guessed what was going on. These must be mothers like herself. They’d all got the same letter.

  Martin wished his mam wouldn’t pull at his hand like that. He could walk across the road on his own. There were other boys from school in the gang of people outside the gates. None of them were looking at each other. They all had their heads down. What trouble were they were all in? Was he going to be blamed in the wrong for something? His mam started talking to some woman she didn’t even know. All the women were talking at the same time so it was hard to hear what anyone was saying.

  �
��It’s an absolute disgrace!’ ‘The cheek of them, how dare they!’ ‘They don’t want us to have free education that’s what it is.’ ‘The Minister is in there now talking to them Brothers. He’ll sort them out, wait and see.’ All the women were raging and Martin wondered what his mam would say about the bad language out of some of them, ‘shit’ and ‘Jaysus’ and ‘fucken’, but she didn’t give out to them. Some of the women were rattling the gates, but they were locked and there was nobody in the yard to listen to them except for a man in a brand-new black Vauxhall Victor parked outside the monastery. He was having a smoke, and he just ignored them all. His mam showed a piece of paper to another woman and she nodded.

  ‘That’s exactly the same as I got, Missus. Could you believe it? After passing their exams an’ all? Is that him, the poor thing? I’d have brung my Declan now, only he has an aul’ job for the holidays, so I didn’t want him losing out. What have the Brothers got against him, that’s what I want to know.’

  Even though Ann was still angry, for some reason she felt better knowing that Martin wasn’t the only boy to be refused a place. There were more than a dozen women here in the same situation. Some of the poor things even had to bring their younger ones with them because they had no one to mind them; some had babies in prams. How dare the Christian Brothers treat decent mothers that way?

  ‘Here he is,’ someone shouted. Martin saw a man in a suit and two Brothers coming out of the Monastery. He knew one; Brother Scully, the superior. The other was a young Brother. Martin had never seen him before. Brother Scully shook hands with the man and went back inside without even looking towards the women and children at the gates. But the man in the suit turned and waved at them. Then he walked over. The young Brother followed him. He had a scared look on his face. Martin thought he’d be useless in class, the kind of teacher they could make a right fool of. Loads of the women shouted at the man in the suit. They called him Dom. The young Brother had a key and tried to open the gates but his hands were shaking and he dropped the key. Some of the women laughed at him and called him an eejit. Even his mam smiled but she didn’t say anything.