I didn't wait until the next morning. I made up my mind right there and then. And the minute she had gone to bed I gathered up everything pertaining to Ned Strange, every single notebook and tape and paper cutting, then took them out into the garden and burnt them. They included the drafts of my book In Old God's Time: My Mountain Memories by Edmund Strange, 1980-82, as related to Redmond Hatch. They were the first to go. The very last image I saw catch fire was one of him appearing, on the day he'd been convicted, outside the Four Courts, shrinking from a baying crowd, with the single word EVIL rubber-stamped across his face.
The sense of relief after destroying the material was enormous. Not since the day of my wedding had I felt so indomitable, so irrepressibly optimistic. It worked wonders for me and Casey too. Things between us had never been so good. She was going from strength to strength now in her career — as indeed, I was myself. The great thing was that we hadn't allowed it to cause difficulties. We'd had the good sense to nip it in the bud. Because what we understood was that love can conquer everything. People can get over anything. She really brought out the best in me, Casey Breslin. She had civilly requested me to do something for her and, as her husband, I had complied. Fait accompli, no problem at all. Au revoir. So then, Ned, good luck and goodnight. To you and all your partners in hillbilly heaven.
What had happened between me and Casey was a classic example of two people combining their resources, and working together towards an almost perfect end.
Of course, everything wasn't absolutely 100 per cent - it never is between two married people. No, there were the usual predictable arguments, but there are very few people in TV and the world of entertainment generally who don't undergo those from time to time. Especially those with a propensity for high achievement. Which we both possessed, without a doubt, and I, Dominic Tiernan, a once dim bulb, I was learning from Casey every single day.
I used to marvel at the effortless manner in which she seemed to be able to work a room. They were absolutely mad about the woman in RTE. The irony being that soon after I'd dispensed with all of the folklore rubbish, I was called into the Director General's office and asked if I'd be interested in producing and directing a television documentary, the subject of which was to be — I couldn't believe my ears — the traditions and history of Slievenageeha Mountain!
—Your own home place, I understand, he said.
—Yes, I replied shakily, as the back of my neck began to tingle.
He proposed calling the documentary These Are My Mountains, which I told him I considered an excellent title, suggesting we might use Brian Coll on the soundtrack - a singer whom I knew had been a long-standing favourite of Ned's.
—An excellent idea, he said, and gave me a smile, declaring good-humouredly as he rose to his feet that he'd clearly picked the right man.
—For you obviously know your country music!
2006
Eight: May You Never
THESE DAYS I HAVE a tendency to chastise myself for my clumsiness and hopelessly embarrassing lack of tact when announcing my decision to leave RTE. But the truth is that it could hardly have been handled in any other way. I mean, after all, it wasn't Casey who had walked out on me. Regardless of what she might have done, irrespective of how despicable her behaviour might have been - and that was pretty despicable, believe you me — it would always be Redmond Hatch who had done the walking out.
Redmond Hatch who, in the February of 2004, had abruptly and dramatically ended the marriage. Or 'flipped', which was how they had taken to describing it in the RTE canteen. I never commented. All I wanted was to get out of the place. Once and for all, just get away. Those were the feelings I had at the time. So there's no point in looking back and trying to rewrite history.
The kind Casey Breslin was, she'd have been able to lie her way out of it anyway, charm judge and jury with that great big disarming Albany smile. There was this way she had of smoothing back her hair. Of lifting up those hazel eyes. You'd pretty much have believed anything Casey wanted you to. A very, very smart lady indeed. All I can say is — she saw this fool coming.
I ought to have known the night we were drinking and I asked her to put on the blue dress I'd bought for her in town that day. It really was the most gorgeous dress, and I knew it would look lovely with the matching cornflower-blue hair clasp. But Miss Sophisticate was having none of it.
—I'm not wearing that Pollyanna rag, she snapped — and I had to pretend that the whole thing had been a joke, which of course it hadn't been at all. I'd been thinking of her in it practically all week, after I'd spotted it by chance in the window.
—What's wrong with you? she'd continued, quite unreasonably. It's like something you'd see in the nineteenth century!
She went off to her friend's and didn't phone. And the following day said nothing at all about it. All I kept thinking as I waited for her to phone was: Something dreadful is going to happen.
She came back the following evening, but when I took her in my arms to make love, she moved away and said she was tired.
The only reason I was in a position to leave RTE at all was that around that time the Department of Transport had introduced new legislation with regard to taxi deregulation. Before that, a plate would have cost close on sixty grand, whereas now I was able to get my hands on one for a little under seven. I won't say it saved my life — it's not like I was on the breadline or anything — but it sure as hell made things a damned sight easier.
What I couldn't believe were Casey's sweet smiles when the two of us parted for the very last time. It was as if nothing much had happened at all - apart perhaps from a minor disagreement.
—Bye, darling! she said with a wave, see ya! Ciaol
For a while afterwards, I succumbed to bitterness and started drinking far too much. I'd begin in the morning and carry on all day. It would be just like old times, staring out of windows in Temple Bar pubs, surrounded by loud nurses and roistering, invasive students — cowed by the hegemony of hedonism and imperious youth. I was sure I was going to end up in a hostel again, longing to be reunited with Catherine Courtney — the only woman for Redmond Hatch.
Initially, that was a conclusion that had frightened me - I won't deny it. But the more I became acclimatised to it, the more acceptant I became. Knowing that, sooner or later, we would meet again. We were fated to, our two lives fixed on courses which must inevitably intersect. In case I had ever begun to doubt that, one day, quite out of nowhere, Ronan Collins the drivetime deejay introduced a record dedicated to a girl from Cork. Which might have meant nothing, obviously, except for the particular music track which had been chosen. The warmest feeling stole over me then. Obviously Ronan could have played any song. But he hadn't. He had played that one. Which I hadn't heard on the radio for years.
Just hearing it changed everything.
Now I was certain the two of us were going to meet. And that private inner conviction — well, it just kept me going. Transformed me, in fact, made me more amenable and relaxed in myself.
It was lovely, thinking about Imogen as I cruised along, thinking about Imogen who I'd be seeing later that evening. A stag party reveller in a hat and purple wig gave me a wave from a rickshaw and cheered, before hurtling off into the mass of jostling colour, beaming like a kid as he held on to his hat, as if jaunting through the gates of Eden itself.
It really is great to work in Dublin now. And, operating out of Aungier Cabs in Aungier Street, I have myself an absolute ball. There are eight of us on call here in the control office at any one time - and, generally speaking, we pull together well. I think, in the main, because we're all married men. Occasionally you'll get young whippersnappers, bragging about nightclubs and all the women they've had. But we never take much notice, just laugh it off, like you do if you've any sense. Young blood - it never changes. A few knocks is the thing to shut them up. As we well know. For, all of us taxi men, we've been through the mill. Most of us have been hitched once, if not twice, and are well aware
that the only cure is time. And the more time you give it the better for you. I'm only beginning to realise that now. What you've got to do is remain relaxed — try not to be unnecessarily alert or over-anxious. That really is so important. I mean, it's only lately I could accurately describe myself as in any way 'settled' — with regard to my emotional state, I mean. In a way that you could comfortably describe as 'content', or something approaching such a frame of mind. I don't think you really know yourself at all, until you're in your fifties. That's to say: when you've a little experience tucked under your belt. But more to the point, the wherewithal to deal with it. And I think it's only fair to say that, approaching sixty-five years of age, I have that now.
The great thing about cabbing is that, essentially, you're your own boss. I mean, obviously, you're accountable to the office and everything but, by and large, what you do is up to you. You don't want to pick up a fare, well so what. There's no one going to twist your arm.
I woke up one night and there definitely was someone in the room. My heart was beating rapidly and I kept on thinking: He's in here. Now!
I knew it was stupid and irrational and all the rest. But still, try as I might, I couldn't shake the conviction off. I could even get the faint smell of damp.
There's something in here! There definitely is — I can feel it! I kept on thinking. But no one came.
And I was fine the next morning.
Nine: Together Again
IT WAS THE 23RD of September 2004, at exactly three o'clock, when I was coming out of the Royal Dublin Hotel, having just assisted an elderly American lady with her luggage, that the most wonderful event, certainly since the birth of my daughter, took place. In a manner that was totally unexpected, and yet in a strange way not unexpected at all. Seconds beforehand, I had experienced what I suppose might be called a presentiment. I mean it was that real, that tangible. I could scarcely breathe, and it was as though my entire body became covered in scales. Catherine was standing at the taxi rank across the street, burdened down with two heavy bags of shopping. She looked so tired, absolutely drained. The fare I had at the time was an American lady by the name of Karen Venner and I realise now she was deeply shocked and taken aback by what she considered an unwarranted display of unforgivable rudeness, which was most likely what imprinted my description on her memory.
—Yes, is all I remember saying, yes, now will you please just pay me the money and go! as I literally flung her bags on the pavement outside the door of the Royal Dublin Hotel.
I couldn't stop shaking and thinking about Catherine, thinking about how she was so close, just so near.
And, as I'm sure I don't have to tell you, my heart at once went reaching out to her.
I know that some people might say that's a lie, like something you'd expect Ned Strange to come out with. That my heart possessed two unique chambers, and if one of them was warm, then the other most certainly wasn't. But it isn't a lie.
Of course it's not.
—Catherine, I sighed, my darling Catherine.
This is an enchanted day, I kept thinking to myself, these are truly 'the enchanted days', as I turned the car around, away from the startled Karen Venner, and pulled up beside her, tugging my cap well down over my eyes.
Every Christmas it is traditional for the taxi drivers to throw a party for the children of St Jude's Orphanage, the school on the north side for which we often drive. Each one of the cabbies always makes a point of bringing a present, so I went into town to purchase mine. It was a beautiful day, the sort I really love, crisp and clear with everyone in mufflers and coats with furry collars buttoned up to the neck. They seemed pretty certain that it was going to be a white Christmas. At any rate, the major chain stores didn't need any convincing, with Irving Berlin's famous tune piping out of every doorway.
I'll never forget that first Christmas in Soho, not just for the fairy-lit carousel, which, incidentally, had been chiming the tune 'White Christmas' as well, but for the warm and lovely feeling that pervaded Soho itself.
People will tell you the English are remote, but at social gatherings I've often found them anything but — charming in an admittedly diffident fashion, but always more than willing to partake in party games and sing-songs. There appeared to be one in every pub that we passed.
—Everyone's enjoying themselves, aren't they, Daddy? I remember little Imogen saying as she trembled. Trembled with an almost uncontainable delight.
I remember I had arranged to meet Catherine in the French House in Dean Street and when Immy and I arrived, we were delighted to see she was already there. Looking gorgeous in this snow-speckled muffler with a great pile of presents sitting at her feet. As soon as she saw me she strolled across and kissed me. Then, would you believe, who walked in, only a quartet of red-cheeked happy choristers!
That was the first Christmas that meant anything to Imogen. Before that she really didn't have much of a clue. She did now, though. All she could talk about was: 'Christmas, Christmas, Christmas'.
—My friend Emma, she's getting a My Little Pony, she told me, if not once then at least a dozen times.
After that the first chance I got I went straight into Hamleys and purchased one for Santa's sack. Pinkie Pie Pony was all painted up in Day-Glo colours, with a great flowing mane of the glossiest baby pink. She even had these silly coy eyes, with ridiculously long black curly eyelashes. All the kids were going crazy for them then. I hid it safely under the stairs. That night I had the daftest dream: the buoyant theme tune playing as me and Immy rode across the sky, passing the Care Bears as we sailed past the sun.
—Look over there, Pinkie Pie! It's your friends the Care Bears! I heard Immy shouting as she held on for dear life to My Little Pony's streaming mane.
I had been unsure what to buy as my present for the St Jude's Orphanage raffle — so, straight away, the minute that Pinkie Pie came into my mind, I thought to myself: Why not? As a matter of fact, I decided to buy two: one for Immy and one for the raffle.
—So how are we today? the assistant quipped cheerily as she wrapped up the Christmas gifts. Enjoying the festive season, are we?
—We certainly are, I replied with a smile, are you?
—Oh, yes, sir. Yes indeed. They say this Christmas is likely to be white.
—It's looking that way, I said to her, as I lifted my nose and inhaled with delight.
When I was coming out the door, I almost collided with a group of revelling Icelanders, laden down with boxes and parcels. We all apologised at the same time before being swallowed once more by the throng.
And what a glorious throng it was.
Dublin had changed so much, I thought to myself, even since those burgeoning days of the early nineties, when Temple Bar had been little more than a cluster of empty warehouses inhabited by drunken derelicts and wan, impoverished actors. The glistening steel spike that had replaced the long-since demolished pillar of Admiral Nelson seemed to defiantly embody the spirit of the new age —pristine, featureless but full of pioneering and resolute spirit. The forelock-touching days of the lowered eyes and the cardboard suitcase, it seemed now as though they'd never existed at all. Or, if they ever had, it had been in some half-known Eastern European country, whose slope-shouldered immigrants we patronised now. The airport was so crowded that at times it seemed only just capable of functioning. A far cry from the days when Catherine and me took our leave at gate B21, along with a couple of other whey-faced stragglers, every bit as crushed and obsequious as their hangdog, bewildered antecedents. Now all that belonged in the realm of memory — cast disdainfully into history's dustbin.
The sense of triumph in the city was palpable, you could feel it renewing itself for further assaults upon the future. In the capital city in the noughties, especially now that it was Christmas, it really was so good to be alive.
When I got back to the base in Aungier Street, what, to my complete and utter amazement, did I find? One of the drivers, as casual as you like, leafing through the pages of my bo
ok Where the Wild Things Are, as if he owned the damned thing. That one single incident is sufficient to illustrate just how much things had changed - not with Dublin but with me, psychologically. Once upon a time it would have been very possible — most probable, in fact —that such a situation could have turned extremely unpleasant.
Not now, though. Especially not at Christmas, for heaven's sake.
It didn't matter at all, I reassured him. I knew there had to be a logical explanation. It transpired that, yes, indeed there was. The poor man was apologetic to the point of embarrassment. Which was just as well, for what had I done? I had gone and stupidly inscribed on the inside front cover. And if that isn't bad enough, had been good enough to write my own name as well.
—Love Daddy XX Redmond
It was a tense moment.
—No harm done, I said, zipping up the holdall.
I became aware he was eyeing me like a hawk.
—There we are! I said gaily, slinging the bag across my shoulder.
—I'm sorry about the misunderstanding, he smiled, I would never knowingly interfere with another man's property.
—Of course you wouldn't! I replied cheerily, aren't we all friends here? Striding out the door, chafing the palm of my hand with my keys.
It was a short journey to St Jude's but I was rigid and preoccupied all the way.
—Fuck it! I repeated. How could I have been so stupid?
I persuaded myself, however, that in all likelihood it would come to nothing.
—How many Redmonds must there be in Ireland?
I kept on repeating that. But I still wasn't convinced and I knew that I wasn't.
I wanted to stay until the end of the prize-giving but the little crippled boy was more than I could bear. It was all going fine until they lifted him on to the stage.
—Ah, the little dote, said the woman next to me, as they handed him his present.
It was Pinkie Pie Pony in a transparent box. I stammered an excuse and exited out the back, vomiting in a corner of the wide gravelled yard.
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