Unspoken

by Gerard Stembridge

  Luckily, The Rocky Road to Dublin turned out to be everything he would have hoped from the genius of nouvelle vague. Turning his camera on today’s Ireland, Couthard had conducted a giddying smash-and-grab exercise involving a combination of brilliantly observed improvised hand-held sequences in dimly lit dance halls and elegantly composed cityscapes, which allowed him to counterpoint the sad decay of old Dublin streets with the ruthless modernity of Ballymun’s new towers. Baz admired the relaxed simplicity of the interviews. Seán O’Faoláin seemed at ease in his garden as he offered a clinical dissection of a society without moral courage, which observed what he called ‘a self-interested silence, never speaking in moments of crisis’. Couthard’s unfussy observation of a trendy young priest going about his business became, in its understated way, devastating satire. The fatuous cleric probably loved being on camera more than he loved Jesus, and had no idea how ludicrous he seemed. At one moment he was performing the ‘Chattanooga Shoeshine Boy’ to bewildered patients in a hospital ward, at another he made himself the master of ceremonies and chief entertainer at a parish wedding. Finally, puffing casually on a cigarette, this junior celibate offered his considered views on the dangers of pre-marital sex. Baz loved how Couthard had the wit not to employ odd angles or camera tricks to make the cleric look more ludicrous. He simply pointed it in his direction, knowing the young priest’s bloated ego would do the rest. Throughout the film, moments of ordinary Dublin life were captured: looks, glances and revealing details of behaviour. Baz was also amused that Couthard had spotted a phenomenon that Irish people took entirely for granted. There were priests everywhere; in every hole and corner, at every activity, gathering and bunfight.

  Baz watched, transfixed, envious, exhilarated, frustrated, enthralled. Driving back to Rossaveel that night, he couldn’t stop talking about it. ‘Imagine, in six years of national broadcasting, no one working in RTE, including myself, came close to creating what we just saw.’ This was the kind of film that had been in his head ever since he returned to Ireland. But Peter Lennon with the help of his French cameraman had got there first. Baz told Miriam that, when the film ended, he hadn’t been sure whether he should stand and cheer, or curl up and cry. Couthard had popped over from France for, maybe, two or three weeks, presumably earning little or no money – for surely this film must have been made on a shoestring – yet he had, with casual genius, pointed his camera and penetrated the heart and soul of this society. Miriam said, very simply, ‘Well, why not be inspired by it? Go out and make something even better.’ Baz was silent for some time after that, but around two in the morning as they crossed the Shannon at Athlone he said, ‘All right. I’ll try.’

  In what was a self-conscious act of homage, Baz managed to find out, with the help of Miriam’s friend, what camera Couthard had used and he ordered himself an Éclair Camerette. He didn’t, as yet, know exactly what he was going to do with it, what story he was going to tell. It would be something about where his country was at the end of this most bewildering decade. But it wouldn’t be an essay, a polemic. Baz wanted the images to reveal whatever story was out there. He didn’t have much money, but he wasn’t on a schedule either. No one was paying his wages any more. His time was his own.

  When he got back to the cottage, Miriam asked how the screen test had gone: ‘Will Buttercup get the part?’ Baz said the cow’s performance was fine but the cinematography left a lot to be desired. He was about to pack away the Éclair when he heard her pass on, almost as an afterthought, something she had just heard on the radio. The Minister for Education had dropped dead earlier in the day. A heart attack. ‘Imagine, only forty-seven, the poor fellah.’

  ‘What? Dom is dead?’ Miriam agreed it was quite a shock but Baz could see she was surprised at the depth of his reaction, so he told her the story of Dom’s significant, if unintentional, role in his decision to leave RTE. Miriam said it was karma. ‘You’ve been thinking about this project of yours. When to start, what’ll it be about. Your new camera arrives and the next day you hear this news. The camera was still in your hands when I told you. It’s clear as day, Baz. You have to bring it to the man’s funeral. See what happens.’ Whatever his thoughts about karma, Baz was inclined to agree with her conclusion.

  Twenty-five: March 11th

  Mr Hennessy was a nice mad teacher. When he took the boys out for hurling practice he wore a hairnet to keep his big head of long black hair from going all over the place as he ran around. Even though he was a lump of a country fellah and always wore a suit, the boys called him Hippie Hennessy. Everyone in 3A liked him. History was his favourite thing to teach, and last Friday he had told them to read all about the Battle of Kinsale in their picture book, STAIR NA hÉIREANN. Francis loved history and had learned off the three reasons why, STAIR NA hÉIREANN explained, the English beat the Irish again in 1603.

  1 Snow fell.

  2 There were spies in the Irish camp.

  3 The Spanish never came.

  He had been hoping that Mr Hennessy would ask him the three reasons, but when he saw the look on his face as he came up the stairs, Francis wasn’t so sure. Mr Hennessy unlocked the classroom door and threw it open without a word. Then he sat down, opened up the roll book and started barking out the names very fast. The boys of 3A were smart enough to answer ‘Anseo’ with no messing, until Padraig Leddin was caught with his head under the desk when his name was called. Mr Hennessy just stared. Silence. Finally Padraig Leddin looked up and realised. His voice squeaked when he said ‘Anseo’ but nobody dared laugh. Mr Hennessy kept staring at him for another couple of seconds. Deadly silence. Then he went on with the roll-call. Francis and Ian sneaked a wary glance at each other across the room. What was up with him?

  Mr Hennessy slapped the roll-book closed and kept his head down, his hair falling forward. 3A waited in trepidation. It was the first time Francis understood properly what that word meant. After a few seconds Mr Hennessy pushed his hair way back on his head, looked up at the boys and started to speak. But he didn’t sound angry at all: just very, very sad.

  ‘Boys, as you know from your history lessons, there have been many great Irish people in the past. We also know that many of them died far too young, sacrificing their lives for Ireland. Well, yesterday another Irishman, who we should all be proud of, went before his time. This man was our Minister for Education. He was a local man, born and bred in this city. In fact, less than two years ago I heard him give a mighty speech down in that yard there at the opening of this very building you’re sitting in now. And remember boys, as Minister for Education he wasn’t only in charge of this school, but every other school and college in the whole country and I can tell you, he worked night and day to make sure that every boy and girl in Ireland would get a better education. It’s because of this man – listen very carefully now – that most of you sitting here are getting a much better throw of the dice than your parents did. Do you hear me now? It’s important that you appreciate this. And I’m not embarrassed to tell you lads how sad I feel this morning that such a fine man has been lost to us…’

  Mr Hennessy stopped talking for a few seconds. He was at the window now, looking down at the yard. The whole class could see that he was trying not to start crying.

  ‘… so… stand up boys and we’ll say a special prayer for the repose of his soul. Oh, and… ah… there’s something else I have to tell you and I’m warning you now, I don’t want to hear a sound out of you, but ah… the funeral is taking place tomorrow in the cathedral, a State funeral, so, as a mark of respect to his memory –’

  Francis knew what Mr Hennessy was about to say and that anyone mad enough to start any kind of a cheer was asking for trouble.

  ‘– the school will be closed and you will all have a day off.’

  Mr Hennessy looked around, daring someone to whoop or even grin, but there wasn’t a peep out of anyone and everyone tried to look serious. However delighted the boys of 3A might be at the news of a free day, they were bright enough to kee
p it to themselves.

  Twenty-six: March 12th

  Michael Liston gazed at his boy. At eight years of age what did he make of this enormous, important funeral? A nurse had minded him during his mother’s burial when he was only five days old. When Michael called to the boarding school at eight this morning, to collect the child, he was by no means confident that, given reports he had been receiving lately about his recalcitrance, he would even want to come. How well did the boy remember Dom anyway? But he was ready and waiting, spotlessly turned out. Father McCormick said Matthew had seemed quite anxious to go to the funeral. Father McCormick thought it was a very good idea to bring him.

  Holding his son close, Michael pushed through the crowd around St John’s Cathedral. They were allowed inside and directed to a reasonable spot halfway back. Michael could see that most of the dignitaries were now in situ. It was a fair old turnout, by any standards. Dev and Jack and most of the cabinet and the opposition leaders. Anyone with sufficient sense of their own importance had made it their business to squeeze in. Even Dom would have been reasonably satisfied with so much official lamentation. Michael tried to get a look at the Widow. How was she coping? Hopefully she’d be pleased to see him when he called. Not today, obviously. Tomorrow. Through the crowd there was just a glimpse of the back of her head bent forward, an arm on her shoulder, her son’s, presumably. Michael had a sudden shuddering memory of his sister’s arm curled around his shoulder at Matthew’s mother’s funeral. How he’d hated it and wanted to shake it off, but hadn’t because he knew it would only bring more clucking attention on himself. Michael was taken completely by surprise at this unwanted memory of that chilly day. After all, he had not mourned her and rarely thought about her. Dom’s funeral wasn’t happening in the same church and this great event didn’t resemble, in any way, that strained, cold ceremony. Maybe it was something to do with bringing the boy to a funeral for the first time, or returning to this wretched city after nearly two years out of it. Whatever it was, it really shocked him that he had to quell this urgent impulse to tell him all about his mother. Lay it out there; how she’d died giving birth to him; how everything would have been so much simpler and better if they’d both died. Michael knew he hadn’t the slightest intention of saying any of this. It was astonishing that it had even flitted across his mind.

  The Bishop emerged with his entourage of concelebrants and, beneath the soothing hum of requiem Mass, Michael thought about the real purpose of this pilgrimage, his plan to visit Dom’s home tomorrow. How important it would be to play it as a relaxed and friendly gesture of condolence, nothing more; a personal call out of respect and affection for a long-time colleague, bringing along his sad-eyed son, who used to call him Uncle Dom. When the time came to broach his other business, there shouldn’t be any difficulty or awkwardness. Michael hoped everyone would recognise it simply as a task that had to be done. He was fairly sure it wouldn’t take him long to go through Dom’s papers. After all, he knew the kind of thing he was looking out for. It was just to be sure, to be sure, in case there was anything at all that might prove embarrassing or compromising in the future. That was important. Everyone might be feeling loyal and sentimental now, but who knew how things would change with time?

  *

  Francis loitered at the bedroom window watching other children playing on the green. He felt despondent – rather like Frank and Joe, whenever their investigations hit a dead end. His dilemma was this day off school, Because of it, Francis’ plan to buy his next Hardy Boys book tomorrow was stymied. Thwarted.

  Ever since finishing The Hooded Hawk Mystery, Francis promised himself he would read all Frank and Joe’s other adventures. He investigated the library first, but they only had two. The Melted Coins, number 43, and The Haunted Fort, number 29. But it only took a week to read them and, like the Hardy Boys themselves, Francis no sooner concluded one mystery than he wanted to start into the next. Visiting O’Mahony’s Bookshop every day after school only increased his anticipation. There was the row of Hardy Boys books, blue down the side, with the name of the book printed in black, along with the number in the series and the writer’s name, Franklin W. Dixon. Sometimes Francis took one down just to stare at the cover. It was always a picture of dark-haired Frank and fair-haired Joe doing something dangerous or scary. When none of the staff was looking, he would sneak the book open to read the description of the story on the inside cover. If he ever managed to get enough money then definitely he’d buy The Wailing Siren Mystery first. Number 37. But where would he get seven and six?

  Then one morning, waiting for the bus to school, he had a brainwave. If he got up early enough and walked to school, he’d save the bus fare. And what if he walked home at dinner-time and back to school again after dinner? His mam gave him sixpence a day for the bus. Francis quickly added up that walking all the time would mean saving two and six a week. Multiplied by three was seven and six, which meant he could buy a new Hardy Boys book after only three weeks. As long as his mam and dad didn’t find out what he was doing.

  Three weeks later Francis brought seven and six in sixpenny bits into O’Mahony’s and bought number 37, The Wailing Siren Mystery. Three weeks after that he bought The Mystery of the Desert Giant. Number 25. Next he got The Clue of the Screeching Owl. Number 26. He didn’t mind all the walking, even in the rain. It was worth it for that moment when he held his brand-new Hardy Boys story. On the way home from O’Mahony’s, each time he bought one, he examined it front and back and inside. He read the description on the inside cover, then he looked at the page with the list of Hardy Boys adventures to remind himself of the ones he hadn’t bought yet. Then he always read the page that said things like ‘This edition pursuant to agreement with Grosset and Dunlop Inc. New York NY USA’. No matter how many times he read these words he still couldn’t work out what ‘pursuant’ or ‘Inc.’ meant. Then he read the list of chapters. Contents they were called. He loved trying to detect from the names of the chapters what might be happening. Sometimes it was easy – ‘Snake Trouble’, ‘Attack in the Night’, ‘Dangerous Waters’ – but sometimes the titles were mysterious and intriguing: ‘Scarlet Clues’, ‘An About-Face’, ‘A Ruse’. Finally he would, with great care, open the last page, covering it with his hand so he wouldn’t see how the story ended, and check the page number in the top corner. He liked knowing how long each new book was. By now his anticipation would be at fever-pitch, but still, he never started to read the actual story until he got home and sat in a corner of the front room or lay on his top bunk.

  Next on his list was number 38, The Secret of Wildcat Swamp. But, because of the day off school, his mam hadn’t given him any bus fare today. So now he was sixpence short. He would have to wait a whole extra day. Francis didn’t think that was fair. He felt trapped in a hopeless quandary, but he could think of no way out. He just wished the Minister hadn’t died.

  *

  Éamon could hear in Bishop Murphy’s voice an undercurrent of genuine grief. He had already noted, amidst the coughs and throat-clearing in the packed cathedral, an occasional echoing sob. He was aware that thousands waited in the square outside, all along Cathedral Place and up Mulgrave Street almost as far as the entrance to the cemetery. For once it might be accurate to say a city was in mourning.

  It was tempting to envy men like Dom who detonated in mid-flight, whose spirits soared and burst and rained down particles of inspiration and comfort on those below. Michael Collins, John F. Kennedy… Éamon knew only too well the staying power of their legend. Perhaps that was why, throughout the ceremony, he prayed silently, not for Dom, but for himself. He accepted God’s will, of course, that he had not been chosen for such a death, but still he wondered, not for the first time, was it a penance? What sin had he committed that seemingly doomed him to this endless slow dissolve, departing this world particle by particle as it were, drifting to some inconsequential end, out of place and time?

  Éamon’s mind might be tired and troubled but, as yet, it was
never cluttered or confused. He understood very well that while his death, when it eventually came, might be a notable event, it would not have anything like the impact of Dom’s tragic passing, which had already served to embalm his greatest achievement. Free Education could never, in the future, be spoken of merely as a clever scheme or a populist policy. It had become a cornerstone with his name etched on it. Éamon knew his own obsequies would be carried out with all the reverence and dignity the State could muster, but it would be a cold occasion marked by academic discussion and re-evaluation. Someone would undoubtedly pronounce it the end of an era, but Éamon’s precise mind recognised how erroneous that phrase already was. His era had ended long ago. It was years since he had seen the sights and, these days, could scarcely understand the sounds of his country any more. Nor was his country hearing him. He couldn’t even call himself a ghost, for he no longer had the capacity to inspire awe or dread. Éamon wondered if he was, in the most correct sense, a relic, an object of reverence certainly, but only as a necessary ceremonial prop, an old man with a wreath who would not even know where to lay it without the quiet guiding hand of his aide-de-camp.

  Colonel Seán whispered in his ear the names of six cabinet ministers who were now stepping forward to shoulder the coffin to the hearse. Éamon recognised in their gesture a genuine desire to express collegiate grief, but he also perceived the politician’s animal impulse to cleave to the latest source of enchantment. In the past, ambitious men had clung to him, hovered at his shoulder, content merely to gulp in the precious air around him. Now, as these ministers marched slowly past, cradling their precious burden, Éamon guessed they no more saw him than he could see them.