by David Park
He nods his head half-heartedly, looks around for his socks.
‘Do you want me to help you get dressed?’ she asks but he knows he has to pull himself together or he will never get through the day so he shakes his head. She goes to the door and pauses, looks back at him and smiles. ‘Just as well that painter boy can’t see you now – it would make some portrait.’
‘I must look like,’ he pauses. ‘What was it that idiot Micky said? The dog’s bollocks.’
She laughs then says, ‘You look just fine but hurry up and get changed before these two eat us out of house and home.’
When he comes back down, Micky is wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His plate is a shiny skim of emptiness. ‘Never took my eyes off the car, Francis,’ he says.
‘How did you get the food in your mouth then?’
‘Natural instinct, but not all made it,’ Sweeney says, dabbing at the corner of Micky’s mouth with a tissue.
‘Leave the boy alone, the pair of you,’ Marie says. ‘And, Ricky, under no circumstances let him miss that suit fitting.’
‘On my life.’
Gilroy follows the two men into the hall but then doubles back and kisses his wife lightly on the cheek. She nods and pats him on the back as if sending one of her sons off to school. As he walks to join the other two in the car the mist has vanished, leaving only a dampness in the air that feels like someone’s cold breath on the back of his neck. He sits in the back with Sweeney for the short drive to the new party offices and again Sweeney suggests that they don’t really have the time for this but he says nothing, too busy asking himself if Marie is right, and all it must be is tiredness, to tell his assistant that the day people think he has no time for them is the day he’s dead in the water. Adrift on his own power trip and mandated by nothing except his own ego. They pass the Bobby Sands mural. It has fresh graffiti on it.
‘Bloody kids,’ Sweeney says.
‘There’s no respect any more,’ Gilroy says. ‘Not for anything.’
The waiting room is half empty and he greets everyone with light good humour, joking about the mist and making up a story about a returning all-night reveller unable to find his own door. Sweeney takes charge, checking the fax machine and email, speaking to all of the workers, casting his eye over the security-cleared post but letting it sit unopened. A quiet night in the city – a couple of burglaries against old people, a racist attack against Portuguese migrant workers, some minor flooding in the lower Ormeau Road. He checks the names of the people waiting and establishes the order, ushers the first one in and then sits at the side of Gilroy’s desk and takes notes. Problems with housing application and benefits, a school dispute involving possible suspension, complaints about anti-social behaviour by young people, problems about noise at night from neighbours. Gilroy has heard it all before, knows what to say, how to reassure, who to see and what can be done. Sweeney notes it all and in his head is already deciding who must follow things up and who must assume the necessary responsibilities. The constituents are nervous at first then pleased with how they are treated and leave feeling a little honoured to have had a personal audience.
Two women come in, a grandmother and her daughter, bookends separated only by the thickening shape of time. Short, bottle-blonde hair, hooped earrings, ringed fingers, jeans and cheap trainers. It is the grandmother who does the talking while the daughter barely lifts her eyes from the desk in front of her.
‘It’s about our Gerard, Francis,’ she says. ‘He’s fifteen and gone off the rails a bit recently since his father left – nothing serious, just the usual sort of trouble. We’re really worried about him. He’s not a bad lad really but he’s started to hang round with a bit of a wild crowd and we think there might be drugs involved.’
‘You don’t know that for certain,’ the mother says, barely raising her eyes.
‘Well, Kathleen, it was you told me that’s what you thought.’
‘Yes, but I don’t know for sure.’
It rambles slowly on, slowed down occasionally by differences of opinion, but Gilroy doesn’t let his impatience show, nodding his head in a way that says he understands.
‘And you see, Francis, he got in a bit of bother last week with some neighbours and they said they were going to get him kneecapped and he’s really a sensitive boy and we’re worried that he might harm himself if it ever happened. He was a friend of the Meaney boy, the one who did himself in God rest his soul. And the family’s never got over it. We’re scared, Francis, scared that Gerard might go the same way. Please, please, could someone speak to him, try to help him before it’s too late?’
‘I understand what you’re saying and you’ve done the right thing in coming here. And listen, God only knows it’s not easy bringing kids up any more and I know that as well as the next man. And I’m going to do my very best to help with Gerard and believe me no one’s getting kneecapped or beaten. There’s lots of kids out there like Gerard and we need to find better ways to help them, bring them back on board, get them to make something useful of their lives.’
Gilroy soothes them, promises them, calms them down and Sweeney makes his notes. He tells them about the counselling services that will help, about experienced people he knows. When he has finished he stands up behind his desk and when the grandmother steps towards him he thinks she is going to shake his hand so he offers it to her but instead she takes it and kisses it and invokes God’s blessing on him. The mother contents herself with a mumbled thanks and uses a shredded ball of tissue to dab her eyes.
After they have gone Gilroy sits down again and says to Sweeney, ‘Give this to Theo, get him to see the boy and look after it. Tell him to try and sort it out best as he can.’ He shakes his head. ‘You know what I think? I think half the mess we see is caused by the breakdown of the family. Too many one-parent families, too many young men walking away from their responsibilities. Look at that guy Micky – though in his case they’re probably better off without him.’
Sweeney smiles and shows in the final person from the waiting room. It’s an elderly man in an overcoat carrying a dog lead. He sits down on the seat but does not speak, and his eyes flit round the room like restless moths, never settling on anything for more than a few seconds before moving on elsewhere. Gilroy looks at the list of names on his desk.
‘So what can we do for you, John?’
‘I’ve lost my dog,’ the man says.
‘You’ve lost your dog?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘No?’ Gilroy asks, glancing at Sweeney.
‘He’s been stolen. He wasn’t in the yard this morning and the back door was open. Someone’s taken him.’
‘So what type of dog is he?’
‘A sheepdog. He’s called Lassie.’
Gilroy shifts a little on his seat and avoids looking at Sweeney who has lowered his head as if concentrating intensely on his note-taking.
‘So Lassie’s missing? Have you phoned the council?’
‘No point – he’s been stolen.’
‘And you’ve no idea who might have taken him?’
‘No. But he’s a friendly dog so he would go with anybody he took a liking to.’
‘And have you had him a long time?’
‘Since he was a pup.’
‘Does he have a collar?’
‘With his name on.’
‘And would you have a photograph of Lassie at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well here’s what we’ll do, John. You bring your photograph in to the office and we’ll scan it into the computer and make Wanted posters. Then you can stick them up round the area. There’s a good chance someone will see it and get in touch. What do you say, John?’
‘Right, Mr Gilroy,’ the man says, then without another word stands up and leaves the office, the dog lead trailing behind him like a metal tail.
After he has gone Sweeney closes the door and chuckles. ‘Lassie is lost,’ he says. ‘I think thon boy is half barking mad
himself. Lassie is lost. What does he think this is – 101 Dalmatians? Listen, we need to get a move on, hit the road. I’ll get Micky to bring the car round.’ He pauses at the office door. ‘Listen, Franky, I know who would know where Lassie is.’
‘Who?’
‘The dogs on the street,’ he says and as he walks away Gilroy watches his shoulders heaving at his own joke.
Sweeney tells the joke again as they drive across the city but Gilroy concentrates on reading his draft papers, sometimes squinting at the print.
‘I need to get my eyes tested,’ he says to Sweeney. ‘Think the time has come for glasses.’
‘Glasses would be cultured,’ Sweeney says. ‘Wouldn’t they, Micky?’
‘Make you look like a brainbox,’ Micky says.
‘You should get a pair,’ Gilroy says as they pass the city airport. ‘Are you checking your rear mirror to see that nothing is following us?’
‘Yes, Francis.’
They sweep round on to the Upper Newtownards Road and then through the ornate, black metal gates of Stormont, pass under the aggressive defiance of Carson’s statue with his outstretched arm which always makes Gilroy think the Unionist icon is giving him the finger and up the long, lawn-flanked driveway.
‘Another day, another dollar,’ Gilroy says as they get waved through the security check but the nonchalance of his words is designed to hide the tremor of anxiety that hits him, as it does each time at this precise moment, and with it an awareness of how far they have come and the magnitude of what has been achieved. Once inside the building his footsteps clack on the marble floor and announce his arrival and he steps out with his head held high. It’s a building designed to make you feel small, that arches too much space over your head, that can smother your voice with its heavy wood and white marble, but he will not be bowed by it or intimidated by its ostentatious show of history. Harder, however, not to allow a sense of pride to fill his steps. Pride for himself, the son of a sign-painter, pride for his people the second-class citizens – who now through him sit at the very top table. So to scatter the distracting weight of these thoughts he makes a joke about Davy Crockett and the Alamo as they come round a corner to suddenly meet Crockett standing with a file under his arm.
‘Good morning,’ Crockett says.
‘Good morning,’ he replies, wondering if they have been overheard. Crockett’s face betrays nothing. ‘Busy day ahead.’
‘Indeed,’ Crockett says, glancing at his watch. ‘We meet in the committee room in half an hour.’
‘That’s right,’ Gilroy says and then walks on to his office. When the door is shut he says to Sweeney, ‘That fella gives off a cold draught every time he opens his mouth. He looks at you like you’re something stuck to the sole of his shoe.’
‘If he was a lollipop he’d lick himself.’
‘Try to find out about him. Ask around. Try Montgomery in the Press Office. And are we sure this office is clean?’
‘It’s been swept twice now,’ Sweeney says, glancing round the room.
‘Have it done on a regular basis. Go through it with a fine-tooth comb. And no one is to use the phones for anything that’s important, either in or out. Now check with the secretary for what’s come in this morning and if there’s anything really important that I need to see, otherwise I want to spend the half hour looking over this stuff again. Tell her I’m not available during this time.’
As Sweeney shuts the door Gilroy sinks back in his chair and shuffles through the papers in front of him. His eyes are sore already and the day has only started – he will have to see about glasses. Perhaps they add a little gravitas to your image. Perhaps they just make you look like an old man. He tries to focus on the document before him but it’s the image of himself walking his daughter down the aisle that dances before his eyes. The blackness of his suit, the whiteness of her dress. Chess pieces on a board. As a child she was always trying to outmanoeuvre him, exploit his weakness for her, and in her armoury she had a cunning range of moves which showed no mercy until she got what she wanted. So she could work on his guilt about his all-too-frequent absences; about the constant strain of living on the edge of fear, of being a child sitting in her pyjamas at the top of the stairs as the Brits kicked in the door, in her child’s imagination their blackened faces like chimney sweeps.
Their relationship has been a continual skirmish and long ago he gave up trying to rein her in and if anything he loves her even more for her independence of spirit. He smiles as he thinks of the school revolt she led against the petty strictures of the nuns, of her early experiments with the extremes of fashion, her holiday work as an au pair where the family stuck her for a week then sent her home. And does this Justin deserve her? Justin who works in London in advertising, who wears rectangular designer glasses and watches cricket. Justin who calls him Franky when no one calls him that who has not struggled at his side for twenty years. Justin whose shell-shocked parents will fly in the night before the wedding and straight out the next morning. His mouth feels dry at the thought of that walk down the aisle. And what will he say in his speech? What words will he compose for the guests? He remembers the Larkin in his bag and takes it out and starts to read the title poem, ‘The Whitsun Weddings’. It’s about different, newly married couples getting on the same train and heading for London, travelling into the future. He wonders if she will be happy or if she, too, will slowly fade from his life into the vastness of London. He doesn’t know if the poem is a happy or sad one. He doesn’t understand the ending and he is reading it slowly, word by word, as if climbing a sheer face where each one is a handhold, when Sweeney enters.
‘I have an idea,’ Sweeney says, smiling. ‘About Lassie.’
‘And what’s that?’ he asks, slipping the book back in his bag.
‘We could borrow one of the army’s sniffer dogs – they couldn’t be doing much this weather. Get it to sniff Lassie out. What do you think?’
‘Very funny,’ he says flatly as he stands up and smooths his jacket. ‘When I’m in this meeting watch how they look at each other when I’m talking. Watch what they say with their eyes.’
Sweeney nods and busies himself with the diary and stub of a pencil that makes him sometimes look like a race-track bookie.
‘Do you not think you should go a bit more high tech?’ Gilroy asks him. ‘A laptop or at least one of those hand-held things.’
‘Computers are what they love more than anything else. They understand them, how to hack into them – everything. Might as well just write it on your face. A computer is like an open book no matter how clever you think you’ve been. And anyway, who’s ever going to be able to make sense of my writing?’ he says, holding up a page of hieroglyphic scrawl.
‘Like an army of worms wriggled across the page,’ Gilroy says, narrowing his eyes to take it in. ‘But don’t ever let Crockett see it. Now, do I look all right?’ he asks, straightening himself for inspection.
‘Like the dog’s bollocks.’
‘Good, so let’s go, and remember what I said.’
Slow time all day. A snowstorm of papers, agendas and drafts. White paper cold to the eyes and to the touch. He stumbles snow blind through the rest of the day, always trying hard to find familiar landmarks to guide his way, to bring him to the warmth of some friendly hearth. But sometimes his mind begins to drift no matter how hard he tries to focus and he finds himself thinking of an escape, an adrenalin-fired break-out like that day from the Kesh. The west coast of Ireland, perhaps, where the only sounds in his ears are the throaty break of the surf and the only white is in the jagged-tipped teeth of the waves and the scattering of gulls hovering weightless on the salted currents. Others are planning it, others have stashed away nest eggs, so why not him? Marie is right – perhaps he has spent too long wearing a hair shirt, too intent on escaping any accusation of feathering his own nest or the taint of self-interest. His finances are an open book for anyone to examine and God and the bank manager know it wouldn’t take very l
ong. After this wedding is paid for he will almost be cleaned out.
Crockett conducts the meetings, his elegantly moving pen the baton that directs the score to the beat of his PowerPoint and his overheads, his appendices and his statistical analysis. And it’s his voice that takes the solos with his, ‘Perhaps the Minister might consider … ’ or ‘It might be of advantage to point out …’ but in this particular game all the advantages reside in one pair of hands and as Gilroy watches the pen start to slowly change tempo and move like a metronome he feels as if he is in danger of being hypnotised and has to blink his trance away.
If he’s to make any money it has to be through his own transparent efforts that are purer than the driven snow. As they pause for a tea break he wonders if he could write a book, the story of his life, but knows that he would be damned for the truth and damned for what he left out. He tries to engage the tea lady in a meaningless conversation about the weather but she only simulates a smile and serves him with scrupulous politeness. It’s not what he wants from her. Her hair is short, dyed blonde like the mother and daughter he spoke with earlier, and her eyes are a delicate pale blue. It’s the only colour in a face where sadness lingers lightly below the surface, disguised by the lined weariness of work. He wants to hear words from the thin-lipped purse of her mouth that recognise him as a person, that allow him to ask about her family, to tell her the terrible news that soon he will give his only daughter away to a man he barely knows and doesn’t like. But when he returns the empty cup and saucer to her she almost curtsies as she takes it and her eyes avoid looking into his.
Crockett and his team have not returned yet. Sweeney is studying an oil painting of some obscure servant of the state like a prospective purchaser at an auction. Perhaps there could be access to a lecture circuit. He smiles to himself as he suddenly has the bizarre idea of a partnership with the retired head of the RUC. Doing America together, good cop bad cop, both sides of the coin. A symbol of reconciliation. They must be putting crazy pills in the tea. Not in anyone’s wildest dreams. He wanders about the room and loosens his tie – it is always too warm in the building. Pausing before Crockett’s place at the table he lifts the pen and lets it rest in his hand. Lighter than he expected. Inexplicably beautiful. For a second he slips into a dreain of somewhere else, some place that exists in its own perfection behind a kind of veil. His hand wants to reach out and tear it away, to step fully into this place he’s never been, but which he now believes exists, a secret whose revelation has been denied to him. There are footsteps in the corridor and he starts, lets go of the pen and resumes his seat, lowering his head as if poring over the documents in front of him. When he glances up the civil servants are grinning at each other. Perhaps they’ve just shared a smutty story in the gents’ or some piece of juicy office gossip across the sparkling white urinals that you can’t use without having to think of the people who have stood in the same place.
