ALTHOUGH he was eager to get on with his life, Barry had developed a deep affection for the college. Walking through the gates for the last time was very hard. I can always come back to visit, he comforted himself. But it would never be the same.
Barry set about finding work. His classmates were, for the most part, smugly certain of employment. They were Trinity students, the privileged, the cream. Barry did not apply for any of the trainee reporter jobs that were on offer. Pictures still drew him more powerfully than words.
Let the camera tell the story.
As a freelancer he would not have the safety net of a regular salary. If he could not make a living with his photographs he could always go back to the camera shop, or apply to Ursula for help. But he knew he would do neither. He would stand or fall on his own.
Assembling a portfolio of his best eight-by-ten enlargements, he began calling on photo editors. After a discouraging day—they all professed to like his work, but no one bought anything—Barry happened to see Dennis Cassidy and Alice Green coming out of a jewellery store in Grafton Street. “We’re after choosing our wedding rings,” Dennis announced in high good humour, “and we’re off to have a meal. Care to join us?”
Barry glanced quizzically at Alice. “Please do,” she urged.
When they were comfortably settled in a booth in The Irish Steak House, Dennis told Barry, “The Evening Press has taken me on, and not at entry level, either. I’ll be working on the city desk at first but I hope you’ll see my byline one of these days. How are you doing?”
“Still knocking at doors,” Barry admitted.
Dennis gave a sympathetic nod. “You might do better to go for a straight reporting job. Photography’s chancy. You know the Sunday Independent recently gave up on their colour magazine.”
“Just my luck. I had a series of pictures showing poverty in the north inner city that would have been perfect for the magazine format. It’s harder to find subjects that will tempt the broadsheets.”
Dennis snapped his fingers. “How about this, Barry? We just heard there’ll be a big demonstration in County Mayo this coming weekend. Seventy cadets and instructors from the Royal Navy plan to spend their holiday there—in uniform, mind you—and the local republicans are dead against it. That should be right up your street.”
Barry arrived in rural Mayo with little more than his camera equipment and a change of underwear. No newspaper had bothered to send a staff photographer to cover the story. In fact there was only one reporter, a middle-aged man from Castlebar who pumped Barry about job opportunities in Dublin.
This time Barry’s photographs did not lack for people. People whose faces were suffused by the passion they felt. Glowering men marched with handmade placards reading, NO KINGS IN CONNACHT! ROYAL NAVY GO HOME! Matronly women and photogenic young girls swelled their ranks, carrying slogans of their own. A winsome lad togged out in a homemade imitation of a Royal Navy uniform stood, laughing, on an overturned cabbage crate, while his friends bombarded him with water bombs.
Barry lay on his belly on the earth and angled the camera upward, making the protestors seem like giants. Then he stood atop a farm wagon and photographed downward, shrinking them into pygmies. It all depends on the point of view, he thought as he took frame after frame. He returned to Dublin weary but with a sense of accomplishment.
Now comes the hard part.
If his career was going to go anywhere, he needed to break into one of the broadsheet papers. And The Irish Times was the most influential of them all. It’s easy to be idealistic when you’re in college and the real world is on the other side of the walls, Barry told himself. Now that I’m back in the real world I can’t afford to ignore The Times just because they’re pro-British. Anyway, the paper’s not as one-sided as it used to be. It’s making an effort to be a truly national publication.1 Mam used to work for Seán Lester at the League of Nations, and Lester is the father-in-law of Douglas Gageby, the new editor. Might that be enough to get my foot in the door?
Dressed in his best suit and carrying his portfolio under his arm, Barry went to the editorial offices of The Irish Times in D’Olier Street. Shuttled from person to person, through sheer perseverance he finally managed to see Gageby—who recalled hearing his father-in-law speak fondly of Ursula Halloran.
On the strength of that memory Gageby agreed to look at Barry’s pictures. He spread a dozen black-and-white prints out on his desk and bent over them, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.
Barry began sweating inside his good suit. This is what it all comes down to. Making a breakthrough. Any way you can.
After an interminable time, or so it seemed, Douglas Gageby gave a low whistle. “The final decision is up to the photo editor, Barry, but I think I can promise you we’ll take something. And we’ll be glad to look at anything else you care to bring us.”
On an inside page of the next edition of The Irish Times two photographs from the Mayo protest were published side by side. In one the demonstrators looked like pygmies; in the other they were giants. There was no comment aside from an identification of the event. Readers were allowed to draw their own conclusions.
Within days Barry was contacted by five news agencies expressing interest in his work.
15 July, 1964
Dear Barry,
I have received the most amazing letter from Isabella Kavanagh. She and Barbara are going to Europe this summer. They plan to stop over in Ireland on their way to Milan, where Barbara will be assessed by a famous voice coach who specialises in working with opera singers. Isabella claims the girl has a remarkable singing voice. Isn’t that a turn-up for the books?
They will be here for a few days in August, so if you can find a little time to come down to the farm I would appreciate it. I do not know how I am going to entertain those two on my own.
Barry was amused by the thought of Ursula playing hostess to Isabella Kavanagh in an old farmhouse in rural Clare. I’d best take the camera with me. That will make quite a picture.
He went down to the farm a day early to help his mother prepare for her guests. Since Eileen’s death Ursula’s housekeeping efforts had been desultory at best, but Barry entered a house that had been swept and dusted and scrubbed within an inch of its life. The beds were freshly made up with crisp linen and a wonderful aroma was wafting from the kitchen.
Barry rolled his eyes at his mother. “Don’t tell me you’re baking.”
“Not at all; I asked one of Eileen’s old friends to help me out. But she’ll be away before the Kavanaghs arrive.”
“You’re going to let them think you’ve done everything yourself?”
“They can make whatever assumptions they like. I can’t help what other people think.”
THE Hallorans were late reaching the airport. Along the way, Ursula’s ancient black Ford sat down in the middle of the road and refused to go any farther. “Are we out of petrol?” Barry enquired.
“Do you think I’m an eejit? Of course there’s petrol, I filled the tank just the other …”
Barry leaned over and peered at the gauge. “It’s sitting on empty, Ursula.”
“It can’t be.”
With a sigh, Barry got out of the car and trudged off down the road to the nearest filling station.
When they pulled into the airport car park they saw two women waiting on the kerb outside the terminal. Ursula remarked, “Those clothes must have cost a few bob. Not to mention that mountain of matched luggage. I suspect Isabella spent her share of her father’s fortune as soon as she got her hands on it.”
She stepped out of the car and lifted one hand in a wave. “Isabella! Over here! Fetch their suitcases, Barry. Barry? Hurry now, don’t stand there staring.”
Barbara Kavanagh was no longer the unkempt child Barry remembered. At seventeen she was a woman. Like her mother she had a broad jaw, but Barry would never know whether she was beautiful or not. At first sight she imprinted herself so strongly on his mind that he would see her in just that way f
or the rest of his life. A very tall, suntanned young woman with an athletic figure. Hair like waves of bronze. Dark, dead-level eyebrows above hazel eyes that looked gold in the sunlight.
Tiger’s eyes, thought Barry.
Barbara was looking at him with equal intensity. She remembered him as a grown-up—to a ten-year-old, anyone over sixteen was a grown-up—but she had not remembered that he could stand so absolutely still, so quiet at his centre. “Barry Halloran! Don’t you know me?”
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t recognise you for a moment.”
Barbara laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment. People do tell me I’ve changed a bit.”
“A bit,” Barry conceded. While he stowed their suitcases in the boot of the car he could feel her eyes on him.
Once again Barry and Barbara rode together in the back seat. Barry tried to make conversation but could think of little to say. She was so totally different from his expectations.
In the front seat Isabella talked nonstop about her talented daughter. She gave the impression that the girl was the greatest singer anyone had ever heard, someone who would set the world of music on fire. Her boasts piled atop one another like too much sugar icing on a cake.
Barbara seemed content to stare out the window at the passing countryside.
When they turned into the lane leading to the farmhouse Barry was painfully conscious of the numerous potholes. He had never paid any attention to them before; they were simply part of the farm, like the sag in the roof of the house. Ursula put her effort into the things that mattered to her. The livestock were always in top condition.
Barbara turned toward Barry. “You told me you were wealthy and lived in a big house. That one isn’t big at all.”
“You remember something I said all those years ago?”
“I remember everything you said. I had a terrific crush on you.”
Barry felt his ears redden. “You were just a little girl.”
“Oh yes,” she agreed. “But as I said before, I’ve changed.”
That evening Ursula set the table with the fine china that was rarely taken from the cupboard. Atop each plate was a linen napkin folded into an elaborate flower shape. Barry was struck with admiration. None of our neighbours would know how to do that. It must be something Mam learned when she was in Europe, and never forgot. As he unfolded his napkin he saw his mother watching him. He gave her a tiny wink. A salute.
EXHAUSTED by their long flight, the Kavanaghs went to bed early. Afterwards Barry remarked, “Isabella hasn’t changed very much, but the way she carries on about Barbara is cringemaking.”
“She considers her daughter a fashion accessory,” Ursula replied. Her eyes twinkled with merry malice. “Isabella loathes classical music, you know. Now she’ll have to endure hour after hour of it. It’s enough to restore one’s faith in God.”
"IN Irish your name would be Bairbre,” Barry said the following morning. At Ursula’s suggestion he had taken Barbara out to look at the horses. With their arms folded on top of the paddock railing, they were watching the current year’s crop of weanlings.
“Bairbre.” She repeated the word, tasting the sound of Irish on her tongue.
“I could teach you a bit of Irish while you’re here,” Barry offered.
“Why on earth would I want to learn a dead language?”
“Irish isn’t dead. It’s—”
“Of course it’s dead, everyone knows that. Besides, I’m studying Italian already, and I’ll have to learn German and French too. That’s enough.”
“You won’t need any of those languages unless you actually become an opera singer.”
“Well I will, smarty pants! My grandfather left a trust fund for each of his grandchildren, and I’m going to use mine to get the best training there is. So there.”
Her tone irritated Barry. Lifting one eyebrow, he drawled, “You think you have enough talent, do you?”
Instead of answering, Barbara turned around and leaned against the fence. She inhaled deeply several times. Then, surprising in its power, the voice of a mature woman rose through the strong column of her throat. Adalgisa’s aria from Norma filled the air. “Deh! Proteggimi, o Dio!” The impassioned plea of a woman begging the gods to save her from a fatal love.
One of the colts in the paddock gave a violent snort and raced off across the grass.
If amber could sing, thought Barry, it would sound like Barbara Kavanagh. A rich contralto, so deep and dark a man could drown in it.
Or struggle as helplessly as a fly caught in amber.
BARBARA Kavanagh swept over Barry like a thunderstorm. The beauty of her voice bewitched him. Her personality annoyed him. “That girl constantly interrupts me,” he complained to his mother, “and contradicts everything I say.”
“She’s just trying to take the mickey out of you.”
“Well, she’s succeeding. Sometimes it’s all I can do to keep my temper.”
“Ignore her,” Ursula advised.
But it was impossible to ignore Barbara Kavanagh. She took centre stage as her natural right. Torn between amusement and exasperation, Barry said to her, “I’d like you to meet a fellow called Gilbert Fitzmaurice. You two were made for each other.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“We were roommates at Trinity.”
“I don’t need to meet another boring old man, thank you very much.”
“Old!” Barry was outraged. “He’s the same age as me. Do you think I’m …” But she was walking away.
“I feel like I’ve been run over by a lorry,” Barry told Ursula after they took the two women back to the airport. “Is that girl really only seventeen?”
“Seventeen going on thirty-five. Frightening, isn’t she? What do you suppose she’ll be like ten years from now?”
“I shudder to think,” Barry replied.
When he returned to Dublin he bought a used gramophone in a pawn shop. “I’m very fond of music,” he explained to his landlord. “Do you mind?”
“Not if you keep it low and don’t play any of that jump-up-and-down music. The young ones like that sort of thing, but it gives me a headache.”
Barry liked “jump-up-and-down music” too. But he spent his hard-earned money on classical music and operatic records.
IN spite of the inroads that popular music and television were making on the consciousness of the younger generation, sex in Catholic Ireland was still a taboo subject.
For Barry sex was a nagging constant, a distraction when he was working and a preoccupation when he was not. Either way he felt guilty. His logical mind told him there should be no guilt for a basic biological urge, but he could not help it. Some conditioning ran too deep.
That conditioning drove many young Irish men into the priesthood.
Barry never considered becoming a priest—Ursula’s opinion of institutionalised religion had its own effect—but he no longer thought of marrying. A wife and the inevitable children would tie him down too much. A freelancer needs to be free.
Having a family would also place an intolerable strain on his finances. Although he was beginning to build a reputation, the assignments he received from the Dublin print media were not enough to support him. Most of his sales were self-generated, which meant he had to go out and find stories for his camera to tell. Sometimes he did not return to Harold’s Cross for days.
But, as he said to Séamus McCoy, “Bíonn gach tosach lag. Every beginning is weak.”
“And the endings too,” McCoy replied.
“It’s not like you to be so pessimistic.”
“Look what’s happened to the Army, Seventeen. The gun’s on the shelf, full stop. I should be training a new company of recruits, and you should be blowing the hell out of roads and bridges in the north. Yet here I am in my room, reading the writings of James Connolly, and you’re … What did you say brings you to Ballina?”
“I’m on my way to Foynes to see what’s left of the facilities for amphibian aircraf
t. The flying boats were a vital link between Europe and America during World War Two, but I understand there’s hardly anything left now. It might provide some dramatic photographs. You know the sort of thing: death of a dream, et cetera.”
“Ireland’s full of places where dreams died,” said McCoy. “Everything from castles to linen mills. You think anyone would be interested in an old airport?”
“I hope so. I’m doing it on spec.”
McCoy picked a shred of tobacco from his tongue and ground out his cigarette as if it were an enemy he lusted to break. “I’m living my life on spec,” he said. “The hope that the Army’ll be back in business one of these days. I envy you, Seventeen—having something else.”
Barry spent a day in the small town of Foynes on the bank of the Shannon. There was an ineffable sadness about the place. The Monteagle Arms Hotel, which had been adapted as a control centre, still contained communications equipment. A rail link still ran toward the flying-boat basin. But rotting piers, deteriorating storage hangers, and rusting fuel tanks told the story of an era that had come and gone.
Barry stood at the edge of the river and gazed out across the reed-fringed water, toward the open sea. The next parish is Boston. He was swept by sudden yearning for America, where the air was electric with energy and dreams were still coming true.
America. Barbara Kavanagh.
Barry smiled to himself. “I hope your dream comes true, little girl.” The smile expanded to a laugh. “God help anyone who gets in your way!”
The photos from Foynes generated a modicum of interest but no sales. Barry refused to be discouraged. He wrote an evocative article to accompany the pictures, recalling the exploits of the heroic pilots who had braved the Atlantic during the darkest days of the war. Going one step further, he suggested a museum devoted to that brief but important period in aviation history. He sent copies to the few aviation magazines in Britain, then began haunting the newsstands, looking for suitable publications farther afield.
1972 Page 26
