‘Let’s see how he’ll take to his bottle. We’ll bring him back soon. Your husband is downstairs, waiting patiently. Take your own time now, but let me know when you’re ready for him to come and see the two of you.’
Mrs Lynch was so good, everyone was so good. Rita. That was the little smiley one’s name.
*
The man who smoked had come back, looking more sour if anything. Fonsie closed his eyes to avoid any contact in case it antagonised him more. There was something about him now. Was he drunk? Time was passing very slowly.
Barry… Kiely… Collopy… Liston… Strong. Five children would bear those names and grow up sharing an important detail of their lives. Would their paths ever cross?
Fonsie’s eyes jerked open as a hand gently squeezed his shoulder. The room seemed different. Whiter. The man who smoked was not there now. The young girl was smiling down at him.
‘Mr Strong?’
Fonsie realised that the early-morning sun was shining in the window.
He smiled hopefully at the girl.
‘Have you news for me?’
Two: June 21st
Mary Storan wore the ivory two-piece she had got married in when Fonsie drove her in the lorry to St Gerard’s on the following Sunday. Father Mullally had agreed that the child could be christened in Our Lady of Consolation parish church after last Mass. Mary and Mikey were delighted to be godparents. Ann still had to decide on a name. On the evening of the birth she and Fonsie had talked about it. As the nursing home was called St Gerard’s and she had lit candles at the altar to St Gerard in the Redemptorists throughout the pregnancy, it seemed to be the favourite choice, although John, in honour of the new Pope, was also mentioned. Fonsie was easy either way and left it up to Ann. He said as long as she didn’t call him after her favourite film star he didn’t mind. She said now that he mentioned it, Rock Strong had a bit of a ring to it. She was joking of course, and Fonsie was glad to see her smiling again so soon after the birth. When he and Mary Storan arrived in the convalescent ward, Ann was sitting up with the child asleep in her arms.
‘Francis.’
Fonsie had no idea where that came from. It hadn’t been mentioned before. Still, he liked the sound of Francis. Or Frankie even. Frank Strong. Yes that would do fine. Francie. Not so good. Try and avoid that. He smiled.
‘Very nice. You’re sure now?’
‘Yes. Francis John. What do you think, Mary?’
‘Gorgeous, Ann.’
She put down her cigarette and cradled the boy.
‘And you’re a dote, aren’t you Francis? He’s beautiful, Ann.’
Mary fell in love with her godchild that instant. On the journey to the church she held him close and, when he woke, she goo-gooed at him non-stop. When he started wailing she rocked him and hummed until he calmed. Outside Our Lady of Consolation the family and relations waited: the other children, Ritchie, Gussie, Marian and Martin, Fonsie’s parents, Robert and Kathleen Strong, Marg his sister with her husband Peadar Crowley, and their children John, Mary, George and Theresa, Ann’s mother Bernadette, her brother Dan and her sisters Una, Mona and Bernadette with their husbands Seán Durack, Seán Enright and Seán O’Donnell, and all their children, Seán junior, Cathal, Brendan, Connie, Joe, Anthony, Gerard, Alphonsus, Mary, Mary, Eva, Louise, and Monica. Godfather Mikey Storan waited in his best suit, hands in pockets, fag in mouth.
Fonsie pulled up outside the church and said to Mary, ‘Stay as you are, that door-handle is a bit awkward.’
As he walked round to the passenger side and fiddled with the door there were friendly jeers and heckles started by the three Seáns. The older boys took their cue and joined in. Ann’s sisters smiled; that Fonsie and his old jalopy! The door jolted on its hinges as Fonsie finally got it open. Mary stepped out, laughing, and turned to give everyone a good look at the latest addition. There were aaahs from the women and girls and whoops from the men and boys. While Fonsie got backslaps and slagging, Mary brought the baby to Mikey.
‘They’re calling him Francis.’
‘Grand. After Sinatra yeah?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
Mikey, realising that the baby was being offered for him to hold, flicked the cigarette away and took him in his arms. He couldn’t have been more shocked when, as he looked down at little Francis, out of nowhere, he felt tears come popping. This hadn’t ever happened to him, even with his own children. He kept his head down so Mary wouldn’t notice as he blinked the stupid things back. Suddenly everyone was in on top of him for a closer look. Mary reached out.
‘Here, let me. Before you drop him.’
His head lowered, Mikey passed the baby over and backed out of the family scrum. Once clear, he turned away and rubbed his eyes as if to get at a bit of dirt. Jesus! Was it because it was his first time being godfather, was that it? It must be. He lit up again and went to sit on the low wall.
Father Mullally appeared in the church doorway, unnoticed at first. Looking at the large group, he wondered how many different families were represented. Were they all from his parish? So many children, none older than fourteen at a guess, but he could tell that every effort had been made to turn them out respectably. That was something. It showed that these were people of dignity despite their circumstances. As their new parish priest he felt both a duty and an inclination to help such deserving families get on. He could certainly influence potential employers. A timely word in an appropriate ear might make all the difference to the future of any one of these children.
Because of what seemed to have been a miraculous interweaving of his personal circumstances and extraordinary recent developments in the Church itself, Fr Mullally had become fascinated by the quicksilver nature of change, the potential for radical alteration within a relatively short time frame. Relative, that is, to the history of mankind as a whole. In his specific case, to move from serving God’s purpose as a willing but, he would accept, deeply intellectual and rather ascetic curate in the respectable calm of St Michael’s parish in Cork, during the resolute and, some would say, stern papacy of Pius XII, to being, coincidently with the coronation of that joyful and humble man John XXIII, elevated to parish priest and shepherd of a rather poorer flock in a very different city, was surely remarkable? Fr Mullally could not but be convinced, in the face of such sudden convergent events, that his own ultimate purpose was bound in some mystical way to the new papacy, and that he must allow himself to be led wherever it brought him. Who knew how long it would take for the tangle of threads that was the future to unravel and weave itself into a sacred new garment? Step by tiny but confident step was the only way to proceed for now. Today, for example, he would meet a new family and initiate its latest soul into the faith. Another part of the mosaic; perhaps insignificant, perhaps not. The father was a local coalman, apparently. The young curate, Father Tierney, had an idea that he delivered to the parish house. One of the men from the family group now acknowledged the priest with a respectful smile and began to approach. The child’s father at a guess; the face weather-worn and lined, probably beyond his years. The man’s eyes, however, were honest and clear, as he reached out his hand and introduced himself. Fr Mullally was delighted at how the cracked roughness of the hand he grasped contrasted with the softness, gentility even, of the man’s voice. It was exactly the kind of arresting juxtaposition that the parish priest enjoyed. And his name was Strong. A coalman called Strong. How perfect. He realised that, lost in his own engaging thoughts, he had not registered the man’s first name, and now instructed himself to concentrate so as not to miss the godparents’ names and of course that of the newborn infant. He repeated these names carefully in his head as he heard them. Michael and Mary Storan. Also residing in the parish. Good. The child would be Francis John. Excellent. As they walked together to the font, he congratulated Mr Strong sincerely on the choice of names, noting favourably the acknowledgment of the new Pope, albeit, as he wittily phrased it, in a supporting role to the gentle Saint of Assis
i. John XXIII himself would consider that entirely apt. Father Mullaly said he looked forward to meeting the mother… what was her first name? Ann… Yes, he looked forward to meeting her soon when she came to be churched. Indicating where Michael Storan and his wife were to stand with the child, he turned at the font and waited as the family group settled themselves into the nearest pews. He was pleased to note some interested women parishoners hovering in the entrance. Everyone at last was silent, anxiously awaiting his first words.
Then the child screamed.
It was a high clean unstudied shattering sound.
*
Seán T was struck by how silent Dev was on the subject of his election victory. During the meal he spoke of recent events in the Congo, offering his thesis, long familiar to Seán T, on the chaos, division and distress that colonial powers inevitably leave behind when they are finally forced to withdraw and the horrendous task that now lay ahead for the various parties remaining. As ever, his knowledge of the issues and personalities was detailed. He was just as commanding on the new regime in Cuba. There was, in his view, no doubting the intellectual capacity of a number of the leaders. Castro, Martinez, Guevara and, especially, Cienfuegos, who he considered to have a very fine mind. He accepted their idealism was sincere and they clearly had the support of the people. There were even some things about them that reminded him of themselves in the old days of struggle for independence. He agreed with Seán T that there were clear signs however, that their populist agenda was hardening into Communist ideology. Dev suspected that Guevara had the makings of a demagogue. Seán T was concerned that persecution of the Church would inevitably follow.
Dev was kind enough to inquire if Seán T had, during his recent official visit to America, heard any rumours about likely presidential candidates? Seán T was more than happy to pass on what gossip he had gathered. Nixon, of course, was a foregone conclusion for the Republicans, but there was strong word that Adlai Stevenson would not get his Party’s nomination without a fight. Irish-American Democrats were putting it about that young Senator Kennedy might toss his hat in the ring. Dev thought it unlikely this time round. 1964 perhaps. Unless of course he was as devious and self-serving as his father, that walking paradox, an Irish-American Anglophile. Seán T laughed and then said cautiously, imagine though, a Catholic in the White House. Dev shook his head. Even when the chat shifted with ease from world affairs to the problem of damp in the master bedroom when winter came round and a faulty chain in the toilet, which Seán T pointed out as he led the de Valeras around the Áras living quarters, it didn’t coax the old Chief into saying anything about his newly changed circumstances. This avoidance of what anyone would reasonably have thought might be the main subject of the day made Seán T feel a little sad for Dev, perhaps because he understood the cause and knew that, in the long run, there was no cure. After fourteen years in the job no one knew better than he how little it meant to be President of Ireland. He could well imagine that was how Dev saw it also.
As soon as the election result had been confirmed, President Seán T Ó’Ceallaigh had telephoned to congratulate the President-elect formally and, less formally, as was his way, to invite Éamon and Sinéad for lunch at the Áras after mass on Sunday. Before he made the call he and Mary had discussed how the invitation should be framed. Seán T’s Irish was nowhere near as fluent and subtle as Dev’s and, in this circumstance, it was important to get the tone and the vocabulary absolutely right. His old comrade didn’t want his invitation to sound patronising. After all, the man was not exactly a stranger to the Áras over the years, not least having called on six occasions to receive his seal of office as Taoiseach. It was Mary who reminded Seán that there was another reason to choose words carefully; the business of the old Chief’s eyesight. They, no more than anyone else, apart from his physician presumably, knew precisely how badly his vision was impaired. The word was that, while not yet totally blind, he could no longer read his own speeches and so had to learn them by heart or extemporise which, of course, Dev being Dev, he did remarkably well. Mary was very firm with Seán on this matter.
‘On your life don’t be saying things like “take a look at” or “would you like to see?”’
‘Oh yes, of course, yes.’
‘Even “we’ll show you around” mightn’t sound right.’
Seán T took the point absolutely as he usually did with Mary, who was a rock of sense. Between them they composed a very careful yet friendly and casual invite. A final exercise in Presidential diplomacy.
‘We thought it might be a nice way for you and Sinéad to acquaint yourselves with the inner workings of the house, the domestic side of things.’
With Mary standing over him, Seán T had, for once, been word perfect. It was a brief but warm exchange. Dev had thanked him and accepted the invitation.
By the time the visit was ending, as they said their goodbyes, little Seán T could not help but feel that the Long Fellow seemed diminished, even physically, no longer towering over him as he had always done. Later again, alone, before their nightly rosary, Seán T and Mary sat by the fire, each with a whiskey, and conducted a relaxed post-mortem on the visit. All in all they deemed it successful. Sinéad had enjoyed meeting the domestic staff, and both of them seemed to appreciate the little tour. Mary thought the conversation over lunch very stimulating. In her view the occasion had been not only an excellent way to ease the de Valeras into their new home but a lovely friendly way of bringing down the curtain on their own time in Áras an Uachtarán. Her interpretation of Dev’s reticence about his election victory was that it was nothing more than the quiet modesty of the man. Seán T did not argue the point because by the time Mary concluded her observations his mind had drifted back to an uneasy moment earlier in the afternoon. While viewing the master bedroom, Dev had paused at the east window and stood staring out, for all the world as if he was surveying the park beyond, observing even the tiniest figures far off, little Dublin folk out for a Sunday stroll. But how much could he see at all? Seán T had wondered. And what was going on in his head as he gazed? Who ever knew with Dev? Seán T was looking forward to a retirement he considered already overdue, but here was the old Chief about to start another seven years of service. Was this house going to be little better than a prison for him? The silence had become uncomfortably long but Seán T could not think of any words to break it. Then, without turning, Dev spoke.
‘Do you know, I’m hungry. Is lunch ready do you think?’
The Ó’Ceallaighs, in contented silence now, sipped their whiskey; perhaps their final tipple in the old house.
Gazing past his wife to the great sash window beyond, Seán T marvelled at the light in the cloudless sky at such a late hour. Midsummer 1959.
Poor old Dev, he thought.
1960
Three: August 7th
Sometimes, though not often, Dom got sick of the sound of his own voice. This time it happened quite unexpectedly, inconveniently, over a meal in the famous Grill Room at Shannon Airport after what was, by any standards, a hugely successful day. The first visit of Seán Lemass to the region, since becoming Taoiseach, could not be other than a singular opportunity for Dom. For starters, it meant being at the leader’s side all day as press photographers snapped every move and gesture. Sure enough, not a camera was aimed in the direction of the Taoiseach that did not catch at least an eye and ear of Dom nudging into shot. In the famous duty-free shop he examined a bowl, while pretending to discuss with the Taoiseach the exquisite craftsmanship of Waterford crystal and was happy to hold an Aran sweater up to his chest and grin for the cameras. In Lemass’s earshot he asked O’Regan intelligent-sounding questions about footfall and forward projections. He cleaved to his elbow when they toured the new Aer Lingus transatlantic jet, the Boeing 720, and observed the crew in training. He strolled shoulder to shoulder with the Taoiseach around the new industrial estate, introducing him to workers as if to old friends. Now, here they were at dinner, discussing O’Regan’s lat
est big idea, a Shannon Airport development company. The beat of Dom’s heart was still uncomfortably fast, but he was happy as a pig in the proverbial, and the wine chosen for the main course, a Chateau Larmande 1957, capped it all. What a morning. Political gold. Days like this made all the difference.
Across the table Dr Pat was smiling at him and encouraging him to tell that brilliant story of his. The one about the rat. Modest Pat with his soft flat country-doctor voice, always deferring, always agreeing, the smart fucker. He was never the funny man, never seemed interested in being the centre of attention. But he was in the cabinet already; Dom was not. Dr Pat gestured towards him as if making the Noble Call at a singsong. ‘Go on Dom. Taoiseach, you’ll love this one.’ O’Regan held a forkful of beef stroganoff in midair as he added his voice. ‘Oh yes do. Don’t tell me you never heard this one, Taoiseach.’ Dr Pat, nodding and smiling like an eager fan, mounted some minted garden peas precariously onto a chunk of Quilty lobster. ‘It’s brilliant now, absolutely only brilliant.’ How could Dom resist? An Taoiseach’s wrinkled, deceptively lazy eyes turned to him, his charming old smile already at the starting gate. This was what the whole day was about anyway, wasn’t it? The chance to razzle-dazzle the boss? Since taking over, Lemass hadn’t been clearing out the deadwood as fast as Dom would have liked, but he was getting round to it. In the long run he would need to find the coming men to fill the vacancies, and if ever there was a coming man then surely Dom was it. Coming man? He was thirty-eight already, for the love and honour of Jesus! Fair enough if he had to wait until the other side of the next general election, that was only a year away, but if a ministry wasn’t offered at that stage, he might as well roll up his tent and fuck off out of it. There was old slyballs Dr Pat already well set up and, technically, Shannon, which was such a big deal in Lemass’ plans for the future, was his bailiwick. But most of the workers and their families and relations lived in Dom’s backyard. Thousands of votes that he could deliver for the Party. That might be his trump card. After a couple of coquettish demurs, and a few preparatory sips, Dom began the rat story, the bare bones of which was not very interesting and, in essence, not even true but, in Dom’s hands, always had the Party faithful in stitches.
Unspoken Page 5