Unspoken

by Gerard Stembridge

  ‘Ah, Ann. Francis? No.’

  ‘I know, but still, stranger things have happened.’

  ‘And now you’re wondering if he paid for them out of his bus money?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’d say you might be right. And sure, if you are, isn’t that grand?’

  ‘How is it grand?’

  ‘Well now, Ann, it’s a lot better than stealing.’

  Mary Storan had a point, and her casual good humour about the situation helped calm Ann.

  ‘I mean, wouldn’t it be worse if he was spending it on fags like some youngfellahs? And isn’t reading supposed to be a good thing?’

  Ann had had far more worrying thoughts about how Francis was getting his hands on these books, so this solution to the mystery didn’t seem so bad at all. In a way she had to hand it to the child for being clever enough to think of it. Of course Fonsie would never see it that way. Dishonesty was one of those things that really made him angry. He’d say that, by taking money for bus fare and spending it on himself, Francis was as good as stealing.

  When Ann got home there wasn’t a sound in the house. Marian had started her Inter Cert yesterday so she wouldn’t be home yet. Ann automatically said a quick prayer that things had gone well for her today. Martin was probably above in Baker’s field with his pals. She tiptoed upstairs. Francis was in the boys’ bedroom, lying on the top bunk, utterly unaware of her presence, his face hidden behind his latest Hardy Boys book. She could see the title: The Sinister Signpost. He was never happier or quieter than when he was reading. She’d love to find out for certain how he was paying for those books. Then she thought of something. The school holidays were starting in a couple of weeks and, when they did, Francis wouldn’t be getting his daily bus money. So, if she was right, that would put a halt to his little gallop for the summer at least. Ann decided there was no point in telling Fonsie about this. Better to wait, say nothing and watch what happened when the holidays started. She’d enjoy solving this little mystery all on her own.

  *

  After three pints, it dawned on Brendan Barry that something was up. Gavin was not coming. He rang the flat from the coinbox in Cullen’s. After another pint he rang again. And a third time. Then he drove to the flat and buzzed and buzzed. Brendan went off for a few more pints and brooded. Around midnight he came back to the flat and buzzed and buzzed and buzzed. This time he could see a light on in what he knew was one of Gavin’s windows. Part of him felt like kicking the door down, but instead he thought fuck him and decided, on the spot, to drive home. Thirty miles out of Dublin, tired and blinded by stupid bastards who wouldn’t dim their lights, Brendan began to regret his choice. He could have done something else, he could have gone to Bartley’s and picked someone up, got himself a free bed and a warm body. Too late to turn back now, there’d be nothing doing at this hour. Ninety miles to go.

  By the time he finally sat in his own driveway, still a bit drunk, Brendan’s only desire was to be left alone in the world. No hassle, no aggro of any kind. Just slip into the house and tiptoe to the spare room. Escape into sleep for a few hours.

  Even closing the car door as quietly as possible, it still sounded like a pistol shot. The front door was easier to manage. He was in. Now the stairs. He eased himself down to the second-from-bottom step and started to slip off his shoes.

  Click! His own bent-out-of-shape shadow appeared on the floor in front of him as the landing light fell on him. It was a couple of seconds before he could bear to look up at Elizabeth. If she was surprised at his return, there was no sign of it on her face. She’d probably seen his car from the bedroom window. Even in this situation, there were no questions. Husband and wife just stared at each other silently for a couple of seconds and, before Brendan could think of anything to say she, very quietly, spoke: ‘Don’t wake Ian.’ And went back to bed.

  Twenty-eight: October 5th

  Gussie had been thinking about going to America long before Mike Dwane sent the photo of himself with a gang at some beach party. He was stripped to the waist, with his hair gone long and stringy, looking completely off his face. On the back of the photo he’d scribbled, ‘Where it’s at man!’ and underneath he wrote in brackets, ‘I rode the bird on the left!!’ She had gleaming teeth and luscious tanned skin. Had he really? Mike was a bit of a hammer man, all right. He’d qualified as a waiter in May and was off like a greyhound out of the traps. The thing was, for Gussie, going to America actually had nothing to do with beach parties or getting high or riding women, although he wouldn’t say no to any of that. It was about something else entirely, something he didn’t even dare put a name on, something that went back to the time he talked to Richard Harris. Even before that, maybe, only he never knew it. So far he hadn’t told anyone what he was thinking. When he heard some of the other lads in the catering school talking about emigrating, he kept his trap shut. He had been saving, though, and surprised himself by putting away enough to get as far as California. Once he got there, any old job would do at first and then he’d see if there was a chance at all. Some kind of a start.

  In films. That’s what he wanted.

  Gussie knew all the terms: Clapper Loader, Focus Puller, Operator, Gaffer, Best Boy. He’d love any job like that. Surely it was possible. In California it was probably just a trade like any other. He knew a lot about camerawork already. His head was so full of it, it was bursting to get out. At least in California he could say it out loud. Tell other people. They wouldn’t laugh at him. So now the only question was when to go. The start of next year was sort of in his head, but that was coming very soon and he hadn’t really made his mind up. It was his brother Ritchie helped him decide – though he didn’t know it.

  Lately, Gussie had been getting really sick and tired of Ritchie this and Ritchie that at home. It would give an aspro a headache. All coming from his mam, of course. Ritchie had qualified in August and Krups had asked him to stay on full time. Got down on their knees and begged, judging by the way his mam told the story. Gave him a huge rise. Ritchie had a lovely girlfriend from a respectable family. Doing a strong line for nearly a year now, wasn’t that great? His mam wondered why Gussie never brought a girlfriend home. Gussie would have loved to tell her that, even if he went out with someone long enough – which he hadn’t – the last thing he’d ever think of doing would be to go through all the shite of bringing a girl home for tea. But he never said that, of course. This week, though, he’d had enough, mainly because of all the Oklahoma stuff, which had given him a massive pain in the hole.

  What happened was Áine, the girlfriend his mam was mad about, had persuaded Ritchie to join this musical society. His mam was thrilled skinny; oh, much nicer than those old pop bands Ritchie used to be involved in and didn’t herself and Fonsie love going to the musicals anyway. The big show of the year was on this week: Oklahoma. Ritchie and Áine were both in the chorus and Áine’s mother and father were in the show as well, playing big parts. His mam nearly had a conniption when she realised that Áine’s father and mother were Cormac and Louise Kiely. She kept saying wasn’t that amazing now, because she and Fonsie had seen them lots of times over the years in The Merry Widow and The Desert Song and South Pacific. They were both great performers. His mam couldn’t wait to see the show and everyone who crossed her path in the last week got a dose of Oklahoma and Ritchie and the Kielys. Gussie had been in a foul mood at work all day yesterday because he was so sick of listening to her.

  ‘Final call for Aer Lingus flight EI 105 to New York, JFK.’

  Gussie heard this announcement every working day. Normally it was just a routine crackle of words. This time it made something go off in his head. Final call. It made up his mind for him.

  This morning he’d gone to a travel agency and found out exactly how much a flight to New York or LA in early January would be. He hadn’t made his mind up whether he would go and check out the Big Apple for a few days first and then hire a car and mosey across America or just get an
immediate connection to LA. Gussie really liked the driving idea but if he was on his own mightn’t it be a bit lonely and dangerous? And California would be warm at that time of year, so maybe it made more sense to fly there straight off. Anyway, the important thing was that he had made up his mind he was going. Once he told his mam and dad, then he really would be breaking free.

  On the way back from the travel agent Gussie dropped into the Spotted Dog for a small one just to get himself in the right frame of mind for talking to his mam. Then he walked home quickly before the effect wore off. At first he had the impression that his mam didn’t understand what he was telling her; next thing he couldn’t get a word in edgeways.

  ‘What? What are you talking about? – Is this the latest? Another of your notions? – Are you out of your mind? Will you go ’way and cop yourself on, you’re not even qualified – oh sure, I know you know it all, you didn’t even need training – well you’re not going, it’s as simple as that. You can put that right out of your head – ’twould be more in your line to start looking for jobs for when you qualify. Look at the big raise Ritchie is after getting – You’re not and that’s that! – Don’t you dare raise your voice to me! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! If my blood pressure goes up because of you!’

  The mistake had been to talk to his mam first instead of his dad, but the damage was done now. Every time he’d opened his mouth she’d just screamed back at him. She went right off the deep end. Lucky she hadn’t got the smell of drink off him as well. In the boys’ bedroom, Gussie, sullen, raging, but a bit frightened at how demented his mam had got, waited for his dad to come home. It was really quiet downstairs now, although he did hear her snapping at Martin and Francis a couple of times. Well, he was sure about one thing. She wasn’t going to treat him like Martin or Francis. He was nearly twenty and well able to look after himself. She could lose her head and scream and roar and go into convulsions if she wanted. He was going to America, simple as that. What was the big deal, anyway? Mike Dwane was younger than he was and his parents had had no problem with him going.

  He heard his dad come in and then her squawking away. Not a word out of poor Dad, of course. Gussie felt a bit sorry for him. Just what he needed on his day off. Well, he’d have to sort it out with her because Gussie had made his mind up and that was that. Footsteps on the stairs. The door opened quietly. Gussie sat up in the bed. His dad looked at him, searching for something to say.

  ‘Mam’s very upset… What did you have to go and upset her for?’

  ‘I just told her I’m going to America. What’s the big deal?’

  ‘And you didn’t think that would upset her?’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘You know how much she worries about all of you. Of course she was going to get upset.’

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘Because you’re walking away from your apprenticeship. But apart from that, you should have been thinking more about not upsetting your mother. You remember what happened last year the way she ended up in hospital –?’

  ‘That was completely different. Francis was after getting a belt of a hurley.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what causes the upset. It just shouldn’t happen at all. When I left the house today she was in great form, looking forward to seeing Ritchie tonight in Oklahoma –’

  How Gussie didn’t swear out loud when his dad mentioned Ritchie and fucking Oklahoma he would never know.

  ‘– next thing I come home and you’ve caused holy war. Now I don’t want you upsetting her again, do you hear me now?’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to.’

  ‘Well don’t, then. Have a bit of consideration.’

  Gussie wondered if that was that. His dad seemed to have finished giving out, but still stood there. Was it over or not? It wasn’t.

  ‘The best thing is if we hear no more about this… this idea of yours for a while, all right.’

  ‘Dad, I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to America –’

  ‘I’m not saying you’re not. All I’m saying is, don’t upset your mother about it. Won’t that make everything much easier in the long run?’

  Gussie shrugged. It was impossible to argue with his dad’s quiet tone.

  ‘Just… give it a bit of time. How long more before you qualify?’

  ‘Nearly a year, but I’m not waiting until then.’

  ‘I’m not saying that. I’m just saying think about what you want to do but think about your mother as well, and don’t be going out of your way to upset her.’

  ‘I’m not going to say I’m not going.’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything. The best thing now is for no one to say anything, all right?’

  Gussie, for peace’s sake, nodded.

  *

  For however long it lasted, Baz Malloy forgot he was physically present in the middle of this mayhem on a street in Derry. There was only the reality of the shot. He rolled camera and framed two uniformed RUC men. The older one was barking into a megaphone, the other whispering into a small transmitter clipped to his lapel. Baz panned to a line of uniformed backs pushing forward against a crowd of protestors. He followed the line, which broke and shifted. A baton suddenly appeared in the centre of his frame, as one of the RUC men lifted it shoulder-high in readiness. Baz managed to hold it in shot for a few seconds before it disappeared into a convulsion of bodies. In the corner of the frame he glimpsed two officers drag someone away. He was about to pan with them when a banner appeared in shot: CIVIL RIGHTS MARCH. The protesters carrying it were attempting to push past the police line. The banner twisted and fell. A few of the protestors stumbled through and, as bodies surged forward, Baz was knocked back, but something prevented him falling, a car he guessed, but there was no time to look. He framed again as some of the policemen grabbed the banner from the protesters and re-formed their line. Baz tracked in closer and closer. Despite being surrounded by dozens of police and protestors, no one looked down his lens. It was as if he wasn’t really there. On the left of his frame the police line was now holding firm, on the right there were hands raised in Nazi salute and Baz could hear clearly what the protestors were shouting: ‘Sieg heil! Sieg heil!’ When the RUC pushed forward, Baz lost his position and, for a moment, all he could see in the frame was the back of a police cap in massive close-up, then he bumped against another parked car.

  By the time he twisted his body round to the other side, the march had become a running battle. Now he could forget any notions he might have had of lens-changing and refocusing. He’d have to keep it wide and loose if he was to have any chance of shooting something decent. As he ran with the crowd, Baz roamed left and right, searching for meaningful action. For several long seconds the shot was nothing more than a confusion of bodies retreating down the street. For no reason, other than that he suddenly appeared cleanly in the middle of frame, Baz targeted a young officer who casually pushed protestors back as he moved across the road. When the young officer raised his baton, utterly without warning, and whipped it across the ear of a man who was walking away from him, not even looking in his direction, Baz was perfectly positioned and caught the moment clearly, in all its terrifying nonchalance. He was no more than two feet away as the man roared and dropped. If Baz had been standing there as a normal observer instead of behind a lens he would have instantly backed away in shock and horror, but because the film was now the reality, he held the young policeman in frame and pursued him without wavering. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before he found another head to crack. As this victim fell, an older RUC officer ran into shot and grabbed his young colleague as if trying to calm him. Then a woman, hardly more than a girl, appeared and stood protectively in front of the injured protestor, who was still on the ground. Baz liked the way his framing emphasised the incongruity of a handbag hooked safely on her arm even in the midst of crisis. The tableau was erased as RUC men spilled into the foreground, all with batons raised. Baz briefly discovered one of the injured protestors being helped to his feet, b
ut a moment later the frame was invaded by a running maul. Panning, he spotted an older officer chasing a protestor, who tripped and fell. Baz surged closer and, in contrast to the casual assault he had caught on camera earlier, this time he bore witness to an angry beating. The officer wielded a long black stick with both hands and with such force that his own hat fell off to reveal a surprisingly distinguished head of white hair. He stopped the beating to pick up his hat and, as he put it on, seemed to glance directly into camera. Baz realised that, for the only time since he had started shooting, someone was looking him in the eye. Then the white-haired officer ducked away into a muddle of uniforms. Baz did not try to pursue him, but stayed focused on the victim, a young man wearing, of all things, a three-piece suit. Two friends dragged him to his feet. Everywhere Baz now pointed his camera he found RUC men roaming, batons ready. He saw one officer raise his toward a protestor who just managed to leap across a car before the blow fell. Baz followed this policeman, keeping him cleanly in frame, but the RUC man had found no other victims when, less than a minute later, the roll of film ran out.

  Baz finally plucked his eye from the viewfinder and let the Éclair sink down by his side. The noise of the street seemed much greater and, for the first time, he felt unsafe. He retreated to the nearest shop entrance and looked for the quickest, safest route back to where Miriam would be waiting, near the Guildhall. Hopefully she had managed to stay out of danger.

  Baz experienced a moment of sentimental melodrama when he saw Miriam waiting at their car, anxiously scanning the landscape. She didn’t quite come running towards him in slo-mo, but her embrace when he got to her was intense, even though she managed to make her voice sound relaxed.