‘Oh go ’way you, you charmer you.’ chuckled Aunt Marg, who adored Ritchie. Marian and cousin Mary, who were laying out griddle cake, ginger cake and fruit scones on the tea table, got big hugs from Áine. Ritchie spotted Francis in his corner. ‘Don’t expect a word out of him if he has a book in his hand,’ he quipped.
Without looking up or speaking, Francis gave Áine a little wave. The family chuckled.
‘Oh don’t mind that fellah,’ cautioned Mrs Strong. ‘Lost in his own world. Gussie, put that camera down! Now, Áine, will Marian get you a cup of tea?’
‘Or maybe she’d prefer something a bit stronger, Ann?’ suggested Mr Strong with a mischievous grin at Áine.
‘She wants to meet Granny first,’ Ritchie said in a low voice.
‘She’ll need something stronger after that all right,’ muttered Uncle Peadar under his breath. Aunt Marg just glared at him.
Ritchie had warned Áine how withering the angular old lady’s manner could be, but of course, he also pointed out that she was eighty-six years old and a great woman for her age. The atmosphere crackled with tension as everyone waited, holding their breath, to see how the testy old woman would greet Ritchie’s new girlfriend. Even Francis looked up.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you at last, Mrs Strong,’ said Áine in a polite, respectful voice. ‘Happy New Year to you.’
To everyone’s relief and surprise, instead of the usual disapproving frown, and terse response, Granny Strong smiled at attractive, blonde Áine.
‘Well, thank you love, and a happy New Year to you too.’
Aunt Marg and Mrs Strong exchanged a quizzical glance. Áine must be a very special girl if she could charm peppery old Kathleen Strong so quickly.
‘And happy New Year to everyone,’ Aunt Marg announced enthusiastically. ‘Right, I think we’re ready for our tea.’
Francis was musing that it sure was going to be a happy new year now that thoughtful Aunt Marg had introduced him to these swell new mysteries. The action and adventure was top-notch, he loved the two boys, though he preferred Joe to Frank, and best of all he was discovering an avalanche of new words and ways to describe things. At the back of the book, it said that all boys from ten to fourteen would love these lively action-packed stories. He was only eight and had almost finished this first one in two days. Although he felt a little gloomy to be so near the end of The Hooded Hawk Mystery, he was not too woebegone because on the blue spine was a number: 34. This must mean that there were at least thirty-four Hardy Boys mystery stories and the titles of some of the other adventures sounded intriguing, like The Mystery of the Desert Giant, The Crisscross Shadow and The Clue of the Screeching Owl. He would look for them in the library and in O’Mahony’s Bookshop. Although, as each book cost seven and six, he could never afford to buy one himself, he thought ruefully.
Suddenly, he was alert! It was eerily quiet. No one was talking or making a sound. Yet he was sure that the family hadn’t left the room. What was going on? He was perplexed. In order to solve the mystery of the strange silence, he looked up from his book, warily, cautiously. Everyone was sitting at the tea-table, but no one was eating. Instead, eleven pairs of eyes stared at him silently, waiting for him to notice. Seeing his look of consternation, everyone laughed heartily! Even stern-faced Granny Strong chuckled. Carefree Áine nearly choked, she was laughing so much.
‘We can’t start our tea until you put down that book and join us,’ teased Mr Strong, his eyes twinkling with merriment.
Sheepishly, Francis closed his book and came to the table. Soon he was enjoying the food and the family banter. The solution to The Hooded Hawk Mystery would have to wait.
1968
Twenty-four: March 10th.
Dragging himself from the bed at half-seven on a Sunday morning was not pleasant but, in truth, Dom was looking forward to his busy day. He shaved carefully, relaxed in the knowledge that the face looking back at him was that of the most popular politician in the country. And a genial, intelligent face it was. Big smiles and hearty hellos usually hailed the approach of this face. A favourite, on his way to being a legend. There would be great excitement among the Mass-goers this morning once word went out that Dom would be speaking to them afterwards. Canvassing was an adrenalin injection even on a wretched morning like this, with indigestion scalding him. What politician worthy of the name didn’t look forward to being out and about, meeting the people? His driver, PJ, was, as always, ready and waiting with the ministerial car. Before getting into the back, Dom greeted him with a monotoned, ‘Grand morning for it,’ while lifting his eyes ironically to the impenetrably grey sky. He was rewarded with a smile. An essentially silent man, PJ appreciated dry humour. While Dom would never have been the kind who fancied the notion of servants waiting on him hand and foot, he had often noted with pleasure that his official driver had the awareness and discretion of the perfect servant. The first part of this morning’s drive was a fine example. PJ seemed to gauge instantly that silence was best as they went to pick up JP and Mick. When they hopped in, Dom found their jowl-quivering enthusiasm for the day’s electioneering mildly tedious. He knew this morning’s outing was a thrill for them, not just because they were riding in a ministerial car with the most popular politician in the country, but because their assumption was that, with Dom on board, high jinks and slagging would inevitably be the order of the day. To be fair to them, Dom was aware that, normally, he led from the front in that regard but, for whatever reason, at the moment of their boisterous arrival, he just wasn’t in the mood. The Bisodol hadn’t done its work and the smouldering irritation was still there. A bit of fresh air and the buzz of the crowd outside Sixmilebridge church would take care of that, he was certain, but right now, he wished that JP and Mick would give it a rest. However, he found himself making an effort to rise to the occasion at Cratloe, where the other Mick waited outside his house as arranged. As PJ slowed down and the other Mick raised a hand in greeting, Dom said, ‘PJ, Pull away at the last minute.’
His driver performed the manoeuvre with expert comic timing. He slowed almost to a halt, then, as the other Mick stepped towards the car, his hand already reaching for the door handle, PJ accelerated away and pulled up again thirty yards further on. The lads inside hooted and Dom looked back to see the other Mick trot after them, enjoying the lark as much as themselves.
‘One more,’ said Dom, and, again Pat jolted the ministerial car forward just as the other Mick arrived. ‘Oh, I can see we’re in for a day of it,’ the other Mick was puffing and laughing as he finally got in.
The men arrived in Sixmilebridge in time for half-eight mass. Dom used this quiet half-hour to think out a few good lines. The congregation seemed gratifyingly larger than would normally have turned out so early. Presumably they had come to hear him.
Outside, Dom forgot any physical discomfort once he began to perform. A wind that’d cut the nose off an eskimo didn’t seem to put the crowd off and he felt the familiar confidence and pleasure of knowing that this little audience was on his side, willing him on. When he expressed solidarity with the ordinary working man, they took him at his word. When he mentioned the stresses and strains of women struggling to put food on the family table, he was speaking their language. They cheered when he proclaimed his special love for the fields and hills and little roads round about, potholed though they may be, he said, but his Party colleague Sylvie would, if returned in this by-election, fix that. And of course, when he took a cut at the Blueshirt adversary they cackled like hens. This was what they expected from him, what they were waiting for. Even those who heckled sounded friendly. They were more like the straight half of a comedy duo, feeding him set-ups so he might tickle them with instant punch lines. The beaming red cheeks of JP and Mick and the other Mick told him he was flying it today. It spurred him on to even more extravagant heights. He didn’t lose the run of himself, though, and ended his speech with time to spare for handshakes and hellos before the ministerial car swept them away toward p
retty little St John’s in Cratloe, where they would catch the crowd after half-nine Mass.
By now the sun was making a bit of an effort and Dom was feeling nicely charged. The old heart was responding to the challenge. He began to notice how much growth there was all round, grass and leaves sprouting, hedges bulging. The year was getting into its stride all right and there was so much to be done, but, as far as Dom was concerned, nothing in political life was better raw sport than rattling around these back roads with loyal men, snaring votes. Some of his colleagues, he knew, thought of it as a wretched chore. They despised it secretly, for to despise it openly was political death. Did these fellahs not know how to live? It was one of the greatest things about this little country that no matter how high a fellow rose, he couldn’t avoid this direct, sweaty contact with the people. Luckily for Dom, he would find it hard to imagine enjoying political life without it. And of course, when a man could have it both ways… Well, wasn’t that where he was right now? Flying high with his feet on the ground. Dom liked that phrase. He imagined that even if he became Taoiseach, he would still enjoy mixing it with voters outside the church gate after Mass.
When they arrived in Cratloe, Mick stuck his head in the back door of St John’s and returned to report that the place was full and Holy Communion was well underway. They’d be out in five minutes or so. The tightness Dom felt slowly spreading across his chest was beginning to get on his wick. The thing wasn’t going away. Thankfully he’d be collecting his Beauty off the plane at Shannon in the early afternoon. She’d know what to do. She’d sort him out. For now, the only thing was to ignore it. What was it at all? It couldn’t be called pain. He tried to take a full breath but, like a fat man heaving himself over a high wall, he couldn’t quite get to the top and over the other side. He exhaled impatiently.
As the punters came out of Mass it was obvious they were delighted to see Dom waiting. Cratloe was so close to the border of his own constituency, it had many residents who would have preferred to live on the other side so they could vote for him. Here Dom was in his element, using the best bits now honed from his earlier performance and a few additions tailored for Cratloe folk alone. He had a line about how unfortunate it was that the most beautiful part of his local area had somehow ended up in the constituency next door, but he thanked them for allowing him the privilege of an occasional visit to paradise. They loved that. A big cheer for that. Once again all discomfort was forgotten. Nothing cramped his communion with an audience who not only wished they could vote for him personally, but would have liked to see him become Taoiseach.
Back at the car Mick said, ‘Jesus Dom, you gave it some welly out there. Look at you, you’re sweatin’.’ The lads were high on it all at this stage. The other Mick confidently asserted that if they’d reckoned on a hundred votes out of that crowd before, they were guaranteed two hundred now. The next stop would not yield many votes, but it was important to Dom because it was the Protestant congregation up at Wells Chapel, and he saw himself as a man who knew how to talk to Protestants. He felt they trusted him, even if they didn’t entirely trust his Party.
The jolt, when it came, was like a fist inside him pounding his ribcage. Dom now understood what was happening to him. Oh, sweet Jesus no! The jauntiness of the others evaporated very quickly when they saw the way their man sagged forward, the way he couldn’t catch his breath, the way his hand leapt to his chest. This was no wind-up. Dom heard JP ask would a sup of water help? He heard the other Mick roar at PJ to pull in there! A frantic animal was inside him now, flinging itself at its cage, determined to burst free. If only his Beauty was here with him, she’d know what to do. Jesus, a few more hours and she’d be home. Hands were all over him now. Voices seemed more distant for some reason. What were they asking him? Of course he could still walk! But, no point in fooling himself, it wasn’t easing.
The poor woman who opened the door got an awful shock. Her face told Dom just how bad things really looked. He hoped the lads had enough savvy to know they’d better move fast. He was sitting again. Sinking in soft cushions. The poor lady held the glass as he sipped the water. A doctor, an ambulance, did they know what was needed? He heard Mick jabbering on the phone. Amazingly, the pounding eased as the water trickled down. The eyes looking at him were so fearful he felt he had to offer them some relief.
‘That must be Holy water you’re after giving me, it’s working already.’
They did their best to laugh. Dom did not tell them a numbness was now seeping across his chest and down his arm, nor did he know why the lads talking to him, barely three feet away, sounded like they were bellowing down a long tunnel. He had lost all sense of time. Dom closed his eyes but forced them open again. Had he drifted off for a while? Strange faces were staring at him. Paramedics, thanks be to Jesus! Now they were lifting him up, now strapping him down, now rolling him out the door. He managed to turn his head and saw the lads following, JP’s hand still on his shoulder. Dom tried to say something as they watched him disappear into the gloom of the ambulance. Why was it so hard to articulate? Even in the mad bad old days, the drink had never affected his ability to speak out clearly and with command. On the contrary, it had usually facilitated greater volubility and verbosity. But now, as the door closed, Dom wasn’t sure what it was he had just said to the lads. Where was his tongue gone?
One paramedic was attaching something to him and he felt the hands of the other press down hard. It was serious all right, touch and go maybe. He’d be laid up a while, there might even have to be something complicated in the way of an operation. His tired mind was already adjusting himself to these probabilities. For now, the thing was to get to the hospital fast. The ambulance was still bumping along the back roads, not yet even at the outskirts of the city when, for the first time, it occurred to Dom that he might die.
No. No. No! His body shuddered. Until this shocking moment, he had not thought beyond illness and convalescence and time lost, precious time. Surely it would be no worse than that?
For some reason Dom could hear almost nothing now and it was getting harder to stop his eyes closing. But at least he could still feel those hands pressing down on him, though not so firmly for some reason. Why wouldn’t the fellow press harder? Come on! He would have to tell him to. He would open his mouth and tell him. He would.
*
The cow looked uneasy but he wasn’t moving just yet. Baz settled the Éclair Camerette on his shoulder. It felt snug and light, so different from the massive brooding robot that was his old studio camera. It was going to take getting used to, but that was why he was out in a field inveigling a reluctant cow into a camera test. The wet meadow grass beneath him was not exactly a smooth studio floor, either. He was about to find out how uncertain his hand-held operating was. The cow stared at him as he framed the creature rather gorgeously against the background of the distant Atlantic. The Connemara light was magical at this time of the evening. He held the shot rock-solid. Looking in the viewfinder, it was genuinely hard to tell that it was hand-held, but what would happen when he began to walk? He set himself in position and rolled. He had been warned that the Éclair was noisy and it was. Even the cow seemed to react to the clacking with a lift of her head. Baz held the shot still for a few seconds, then began to circle the black and white beast, training his free left eye to watch what was happening around him while his right eye, pressed against the viewfinder, concentrated on what was in the frame. As he reached the backside of the cow, he stumbled against an unyielding clump of meadow grass. The camera jolted and the shot skewed, but he managed to stay upright and corrected the frame quickly. Then the cow decided she was tired of being the centre of attention and wandered off. Baz improvised and followed her. With the cow’s arse and flicking tail now dominating the frame, the shot was no longer as elegant as his original composition, but the energy of the movement, the sense of uncertainty and unease generated by the shaky chase was immediate and exciting. The cow moved faster and so did Baz. In the intensity of the m
oment all his attention and focus went to what the right eye could see in the viewfinder. His world became the pursuit of this cow. The shot was, at the speed he was moving, increasingly difficult to manage as the camera stirred restlessly on his shoulder.
Then Baz tripped and fell.
As he tumbled, he turned his body to protect the expensive new toy. His left shoulder took the brunt, but at least he could hear the Éclair still noisily running. He cut and sat up, resting it on his lap. It was clear that plenty of practice would be needed but, after eight months without any kind of camera in his hand, this had felt good. It felt like the personal project he had decided to embark on had officially begun.
When he left RTE, Baz had summoned enough courage to send Miriam Hartnett a card and was pleased to get, in return, an invite to drop by if he was in the area. He’d never expected to be still in Rossaveel eight months later, more or less bedded in, but he had gone with the flow. Miriam told him he was healing and that that process should be allowed take its own course. While not the language he would have used, in essence he agreed with her. For a reclusive artist, Miriam was surprisingly easy company. Her cottage had a radio but no television or phone. Together they read and talked and walked. On the third night after he arrived they made love for the first time. And so it continued, without discussion or overt analysis. No head stuff. Both of them just let it be. Of course, he knew things would not stay this way, but he hadn’t made up his mind exactly what he wanted to do.
When Miriam mentioned a screening in Dublin of some documentary about Ireland today, made by a journalist called Peter Lennon who was a friend of her friend Sarah, Baz wasn’t that interested. When Miriam mentioned that the film had been shot by a famous French cameraman he became a little more curious, then frustrated because she couldn’t remember his name. For Sarah’s sake, Miriam wanted to go to the screening so Baz agreed to accompany her on the 340-mile round trip. As soon as they arrived at the Cameo he inhaled that particular Dublin buzz of secret delight. Apparently RTE had refused to broadcast the film so, now that it was officially ‘controversial’, the in-crowd could not afford to miss it. Baz let Miriam manouvre them through the crush in search of Sarah. After hugs and introductions she remembered to ask the name of the famous French cameraman. ‘Raoul Couthard.’ Baz was stunned. Couthard had been a hero of his since he first saw À Bout de Souffle. He had visited Ireland? When? Shot a film here? How had such a thing come about? Suddenly, his expectations soared.
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