Mrs Lacey and she sat and talked until late, and for the first time since Matt died, Liz slept soundly in the soft comfortable bed with its snowy-white sheets and warm feather quilt, in a tiny room under the eaves, snug against the raging storm. The next day, Christmas Eve, she went with her mother-in-law to visit her husband’s grave. The sight of the well-kept grave with its wreaths of holly and poinsettia that Mrs Lacey had made herself made Liz feel utterly alone and unbearably sad. She tried her best not to think of the previous Christmas when she had been so exquisitely happy, tried not to think of Matt and the baby but the memories were stronger than her desire to forget and she wished with all her might that she was dead too. Death had to be better than this torment. That night she did not sleep. She tossed and turned and lay wide-eyed as the moonlight cast its pearly glow along her bed. She could see the stars and tried to lull herself asleep by counting them but the process only gave her a headache. Heavy-eyed she watched the dawn light up the eastern sky. Then, in spite of her misery, the artist in her marvelled at the magnificent colours that only a Connemara dawn could produce.
Downstairs she could hear her mother-in-law moving around her kitchen making last-minute preparations for the Christmas dinner. Wrapping herself in a warm quilted dressing-gown, she stepped down the wooden stairs to join her. They drank a cup of tea and had some home-made brown bread, sitting companionably together. ‘We’d best be getting ready for mass,’ Mrs Lacey murmured sadly. ‘Matt loved going to Christmas mass. He loved the carols.’ Left to herself, Liz wouldn’t have set foot in the church. She had not gone to mass since her husband was killed. If God could allow a drunken driver to murder her husband and get away with it and take away the life of her much-wanted unborn child when so many children were being aborted or neglected and abused, well Liz wanted nothing to do with him. In fact she had ceased to believe that God existed. Only that she would not dream of hurting Mrs Lacey, she would have stayed at home.
As she sat beside the elderly woman in the packed little church listening to the choir singing ‘tidings of comfort and joy’, a huge lump came to her throat and tears slid silently down her face. ‘Help me, Matt, help me please,’ she pleaded silently. Beside her, her mother-in-law reached out a comforting hand. She got through the mass somehow and when it was over and they were outside in the fresh blustery wind that reddened the nose and chilled fingers and toes, she turned impulsively to Mrs Lacey and said, ‘I think I’ll walk over to the grave. I’d like to be with Matt for a while.’
‘You do that, child. It might help you a little. I’ll be waiting for you at home.’
Liz smiled at the motherly woman and leaned across and kissed her weather-beaten cheek. ‘I know where Matt got his lovely nature from.’ Huddling into her sheepskin coat she turned her face to the wind and walked in the direction of the graveyard. Her hair whipped around her face, and she could feel the tang of salt from the breeze blowing in off the wave-tossed Atlantic. Liz breathed deeply. It was a wild, fresh morning and the breeze helped clear her head which was heavy and throbbing after her sleepless night. The rhythmic roar of the sea as it crashed against the rocks near the coast road was somehow soothing and she walked along the road feeling strangely relaxed. Reaching the small graveyard, she paused and looked around. The Atlantic was on one side, the brown peaty mountains on the other and the sky a deep cobalt-blue that no artist could ever capture. Liz gave a small smile. She had been right to bury Matt here and the thought gave her comfort. Standing beside her husband’s grave, she gently rubbed the marble headstone. ‘Hi Matt,’ she whispered. Was it her imagination or was it the breeze whistling through the trees but she could have sworn she heard him say with a smile in his voice, ‘Hi yourself.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ she chided herself aloud but as she stood there she no longer felt alone and a gentle peace seemed to ease the heartache that she had lived with since his death. She stayed for a long time thinking of all their happy times and although her cheeks were wet with tears as she left to walk home, Liz no longer had that awful leaden feeling that had so oppressed her. Somehow it had lifted. The sadness she had been drowning in for so long seemed more bearable somehow. Matt would be glad about that, wherever he was. He would have hated to see the soulless spiritless person she had become.
That afternoon, after the dinner dishes had been cleared away, Liz sat by the living-room window, her paintbrushes by her side. The sunset was magnificent and she worked furiously, anxious to capture it before night extinguished it. It was the first time she had painted anything spontaneously since Matt had died. When she finished she felt a little of the old exhilaration. ‘It’s beautiful, alanna, really beautiful,’ Mrs Lacey smiled as she stood at Liz’s shoulder with a mug of steaming tea and a thick chunk of fruity Christmas cake.
‘It’s yours,’ Liz smiled back warmly.
That night in her bed under the eaves she lay in that restful state of half-sleep. It must be the air, she decided, because she couldn’t keep her eyes open, that and her sleepless night last night. How right she had been to come and spend Christmas here where Matt was all around her. She had been so comforted today. At least she had the memories of that wonderful time with Matt. Some women would live a lifetime and never know the happiness that she had known in the short time they had been together. That was something she would always have to sustain her. That and her work. Today she had felt something of the old satisfaction and that was a good sign. Her mural was going to be officially unveiled in the spring. It had already been greatly admired and three people wanted to see her to commission work from her as a result. There was going to be a big reception and the media were to be invited. Careerwise, she supposed, she couldn’t start off the Eighties any better. It could never compensate for the loss of Matt and the baby but it would channel her energies and keep her sane. Snuggling down into the warm bed she rubbed her cheek against Matt’s jumper and fell asleep.
HUGH
Sunday 17 March 1974
Hugh was in his element. All around him, cheering green-clad crowds watched the New York St Patrick’s Day parade pass along Fifth Avenue, which had a thick green line painted down its centre in honour of the occasion. Hispanics, Negroes, East-Coast sophisticates and native New Yorkers were all Irish for this one crazy good-humoured day.
Just a little down from where he was standing, Hugh watched a brawny mounted policeman reach down and pluck a little boy out of the way. ‘Here, Mama, keep your kid on the sidewalk or he’ll get hurt,’ he said in the broad Kerry brogue that he had never lost.
Perfect! thought Hugh, motioning his camera man to follow him.
‘Sir, I wonder if you would mind doing a brief interview with me? I’m from RTE and I’m doing a programme about St Patrick’s Day in New York.’
‘RTE!’ snapped the policeman. ‘Never heard of ’em!’
‘Irish Television,’ Hugh explained.
‘Ah, why didn’t you say so, laddie? What do you want to know then?’ The rugged cop smiled. ‘Sure amn’t I Irish myself!’ Hugh suppressed a grin as he prepared to interview.
He’d been dead lucky to get the assignment. Poor old Bill Deasy had been scheduled to do the item but had dropped dead of a heart attack on his way to Dublin Airport. Hugh happened to be in the programme office when the news came through and had immediately offered to do the programme. ‘You won’t get there in time; the flight’s probably left Dublin by now,’ the editor said glumly.
‘Listen!’ said Hugh authoritatively, knowing that this was his big opportunity to make it. ‘Hire a chopper, fly me to Shannon, and I’ll catch the flight there. And ring Aer Rianta and tell them to hold that plane until I get there.’
The editor stared at him as though he were mad. He thought it over. ‘Good thinking,’ he drawled laconically, his fingers busy dialling a number. Five minutes later Hugh was out of the studio like a hot snot as he hailed a taxi to get him home. Grabbing his passport, a change of underwear and a clean shirt, he told the driver to take him back
to RTE to rendezvous with the helicopter. Two hours later he was outward bound over the Atlantic Ocean, en route to New York. Hugh couldn’t hide his exhilaration. This was his big chance. He was sorry about poor old Bill Deasy. But c’est la vie as the French would say.
‘Ready to roll,’ said the cameraman and Hugh began his interview. He spent the whole day and most of the night interviewing anybody of Irish extraction that he thought was interesting and although he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours, he didn’t even notice, so intent was he on getting as much material as possible. This was gold-dust, he kept telling himself. He had enough material here to make a documentary instead of the ten-minute slot needed by the TV station. If only he could persuade them to make a documentary out of it, what an achievement that would be and what a boost to his developing career! In the meantime he had made some valuable contacts here in New York. This was where it was all happening and this was where Hugh Cassidy intended to make it big, he decided, as he hailed a taxi and returned to his hotel after a night spent touring the pubs in which the Irish congregated.
Hugh rang down to room service, ordered a big juicy steak, French fries, mushrooms, onions and a bottle of wine. He was ravenous! He hadn’t eaten all day. Twenty minutes later his order arrived. Hugh tipped the waiter and tucked in. The steak was half-an-inch thick and melt-in-the-mouth juicy. New York was amazing! Imagine ringing room service at four in the morning at home. Ha! No, this was where he wanted to be. He’d bide his time at home until the moment was right and then he’d come back here. Contentedly, he finished his meal and sat down to watch TV. He was too wound up to sleep. He’d sleep instead on the flight home tomorrow. The sheer number of TV channels was incredible. Surely out there, somewhere, he could make his mark.
Saturday 27 November 1976
Fastening his seat-belt as the Aer Lingus 737 made its approach to Dublin Airport, Hugh yawned. He was dead tired. He’d been up since five-thirty. He’d caught the first flight to Heathrow and was in London before the shops opened. It had been a hectic day but he’d got the material he needed for his article on the Peace People.
They had held a march through London, ending in a rally at Trafalgar Square. He had managed to arrange interviews with the Archbishop of Canterbury, Cardinal Hume, and the co-founders of the three-month-old Ulster Peace Movement, Mairead Corrigan and Betty Williams. An interview with folk singer Joan Baez was an added bonus. His deadline was six in the evening and he had sat in his hotel room writing like a maniac, before finally telexing the finished item to the Dublin office. A full-page article with his own byline gave him a great sense of satisfaction. Once the plane landed he had to rush over to RTE to record an item about the peace march for a radio programme the next day. Then he was to drive to Bray to present the prizes for a young writers’ award at a reception hosted by a local bookshop.
It was all go these days, but things were beginning to happen and he was starting to make a name for himself. He had even become something of a minor celebrity. More and more he was being asked to present prizes and open fêtes and the like. It was handy money, although a bit time-consuming if he had to drive halfway across the country. Bray was just fine. He’d be back in Dublin in no time.
Going through customs he was spotted by an old friend from college. ‘Hugh! good to see you! How’s it going? Come on, let’s go somewhere for a jar.’
It was with regret that Hugh said no. Noel Murray was a hard ticket, and many were the drunken nights they had spent sowing their wild oats while they were students. Now, dressed in an immaculate business suit with a briefcase at his side, Noel looked the epitome of success. He was working in computers – and cleaning up on it too, Hugh surmised, as Noel strode towards a gleaming new BMW in the twenty-four-hour car-park. As they parted, he said to Hugh, ‘There are a few friends dropping by tonight. Why don’t you join us if you get the chance, Hugh, old boy.’
‘Sure thing,’ Hugh agreed. He could do with a little light entertainment. One thing about Noel, he gave great parties.
‘See you later then.’ Noel handed him a card. ‘Here’s the address. I’ve moved since I saw you last.’
‘See you later, mate.’ Very nice, Hugh whistled approvingly. A fancy Ballsbridge apartment, no less.
He made the party by eleven-thirty, and everything was in full swing. He saw beautiful women with come-on looks in their eyes. He’d score tonight, no problem! Plenty of booze and lashings of beluga! Noel certainly knew how to throw a bash. It was a pity he was so tired though, these last few days had been really hectic. Hugh stifled a yawn as he liberally smeared caviar on a cracker. ‘Tired, Hughie boy?’ Noel grinned, appearing beside him with a beautiful redhead at his side.
Hugh grinned back. ‘I’ll be fine after a bit of chow, I didn’t get much of a chance to eat all day. I think I’ll have some of that salmon.’
Noel winked. ‘I’ve got something that will set you up for the night. Come with me, my weary friend. Excuse us a mo, Donna.’ Putting an arm around Hugh’s shoulders, he led him down a luxuriously carpeted hall and into the master bedroom. ‘Like my waterbed?’
Hugh guffawed. ‘Christ! who do you think you are – James Bond?’
‘Mock not. The birds love it. Believe me it really turns ’em on.’ Hugh did not doubt it. Noel motioned towards the marble bathroom. Once inside, he shut the door, opened a cabinet and produced a small flat mirror on which lay some white powder in neat white lines. Cocaine, Hugh guessed instantly. Rolling a fifty-quid note the other man expertly snorted a line.
‘The best of stuff,’ he enthused, handing Hugh a note. ‘You won’t need sleep for forty-eight hours. Here, try some.’
Monday 12 November 1979
Hugh sat at his desk and stared at the miserable day outside. Torrents of rain poured from the sky, hitting the pavement below with a vengeance. It was not the best day to be having his first book published. He hoped the rain would stop before the launch later that evening. Sighing, Hugh returned to the task in hand. He had been working since six that morning, it was now eight-thirty and as Winnie the Pooh would say he was getting ‘rumbly in his tumbly’. He’d just finish this article on emigration and then he’d have breakfast. Head bent, he returned to his typewriter, his fingers flying over the keys. An hour later, with a sense of achievement and satisfaction, he switched off the typewriter and stretched his cramped muscles. That article would pay next month’s mortgage anyway and the other two that he had finished would cover the car insurance and tax. After all the years of scrimping and scrounging he was finally making a name for himself. RTE was giving him more and more work, as were the papers. He now had a regular column in one of the Sunday papers, and was paid a retainer by it. That retainer was a life-saver.
As he sat eating muesli and yogurt he wondered if he should give Karen a ring. Things weren’t going too well with them recently and she had been very cool with him on Sunday, going home to her own place instead of staying over as she usually did. She said he wasn’t giving her enough time, that the only time she ever saw him was in nightclubs and restaurants and that they were never alone. Hugh sighed in irritation. Couldn’t Karen understand that this was part and parcel of his job, that he had to see and be seen. Didn’t she realize that it was a jungle out there, for God’s sake, and that you had to fight for every job that came your way. Nobody ever made their mark sitting in at the fire every night and he wanted to make his mark. By God he did; he wanted to be right up there with Gay Byrne and Brian Farrell and the rest of them. And he didn’t want to stop there – he wanted to make it big in America. America was where the megabucks were and there was an opening for Hugh Cassidy there – he knew it. With the trend in emigration steadily rising, there’d be a hell of a lot of young Irish on the east coast of the States by the mid-Eighties. That’s where he’d make his pitch. That’s where he’d get his foothold. Johnny Carson look out! And if Karen didn’t like it, well that was tough!
He shook his head. Women amazed him. Here was Karen, working as a re
searcher in RTE, travelling around the country, meeting loads of interesting people, a bright articulate young woman who considered herself to be liberated. She was always going to these women’s consciousness groups, and women’s lib meetings and yet, behind it all, Hugh knew that if he asked her to marry him she would say yes, and have no qualms about giving up her career. Behind it all, she was as traditional as the rest of them, despite the lip-service she paid to women’s liberation.
Picking up the glossy hardback that lay on his coffee table he flicked through the pages. Positively Irish was the title, and he had written about Irish men and women who had made their mark the world over. From St Brendan to Tony O’Reilly, they were all there, the text accompanied by beautiful illustrations, many of them in colour. It was a quality coffee-table book and the indications were that it was going to sell very well indeed. It was just in time for the Christmas market and the advance orders were rolling in.
Of course he had had to get it published in London. It was such a shame! The major publishing houses he had approached in Ireland had liked the idea but could not afford to spend the money. ‘Hardback and colour! Too expensive, Mr Cassidy.’ And as for spending money on advertising! Forget it! Hugh knew that he’d be asked in his interviews why the book wasn’t Irish-published and he’d have no apologies to make. Publishing was a cut-throat business and if they weren’t prepared to take risks and have some forward vision that was their problem. Hugh had written the book to make money, not for literary acclaim. He wanted it to sell worldwide by the thousands, not the measly five hundred that one of the Irish publishers had offered to publish, with black and white illustrations. His publishers now wanted him to write a series of these books. Positively Scottish would be his next commissioned one. Things were looking up all right. There was even talk of a TV series coming out of the book. Just as well he had got himself an agent. Marion Browne was a tough old bird, but one of the best and she’d get things moving. It was worth paying her ten per cent of his earnings.
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