Ann fixed him with one of her stares, the one that was supposed to warn him that she was very near the end of her patience.
‘Gussie, I couldn’t care less what the Dwans do or don’t do. It’s their own business.’
‘Yeah, but you can get a Sobel T279 seventeen inch for only two and six a week.’
Where did the child get all this from? He was obsessed. The only way to put a stop to this nonsense was to give him something else to do, something that would get him out from under her feet.
‘I’ve told you before Gussie, there’ll be nothing ever rented in this house. Do you hear now? For the last time we’re not renting any television. I don’t care if the whole road has one. Don’t take your coat off yet. I need more chairs. Mary Halpin said I could have a loan of some of hers.’
‘Who’s Mary Halpin?’
‘Mary Storan, don’t be smart, you know well who I’m talking about. Go and get them.’
To Ann’s shock Gussie just said OK, and trotted off. No moaning.
‘I don’t know how you put up with him, Ann.’
Putting up with Mona was even harder, Ann thought. She wished she could get rid of her as fast.
Instead of going round the corner to Storan’s, Gussie went to the green and stood outside the Dwans’ flat looking up. His mam, without knowing it, had given him an idea how he might get to see their television. Was anyone home? It was nearly dark but there was still no light on in the Dwans’ front room. Gussie was disappointed and unsure whether to give up or hang on a bit longer when, suddenly, out of the gloom, a strange glow lit up Mr Dwan’s face at the window. He was leaning over something in the corner of the room. It wasn’t like a lamp, it was a different kind of light, blue not yellow. Gussie knew that had to be from the television. It just had to be. He was sure he was right. He made up his mind, walked up the path and knocked on the Dwans’ front door.
*
There was nothing Dom liked better than a bit of afternoon delight in a luxury hotel room. There was something stolen, dirty, about it that really got him going, even if it was within the bounds of marriage. Now, here he was, scarcely an hour afterwards, gratified, unwound, done up to the nines, in the lift gliding down to the Gresham Hotel foyer, his Beauty on his arm, she looking her incandescent best on what promised to be a night of nights. To look at them now, no one would ever guess what bould sweaty antics they had just been essaying. Dom would also happily lay out a hundred quid that none of the other distinguished assemblage here this evening had been getting their oats in the last few hours – the last few years for some of them. Certainly, none of his political colleagues, Government or Opposition, was married to anyone worth riding, as far as he was concerned. Of course a few of his Party associates were partial to a bit of whoring round, but only in the wee small hours when a load of drink gave them courage as well as the horn. Their efforts were never exactly l’Affaire Française; no waiter tapping discreetly at the hotel door, no shimmer of champagne in crystal flutes, no rustle of silk negligée draped on a chaise longue. More like a crotch rub in the kitchenette of a two-room flat in Phibsboro, beer spilt down a blouse, then pawed at in pretend apology. Occasionally Dom still envied his wayward pals the thrill of the chase, no matter how grubby and futile. Stepping out of the lift, he intercepted a passing waiter with a full tray and relieved him of a Power’s Gold Label. First of the day. Bit of catching up to do. He opened his mouth and threw it in; gone. His Beauty was already smiling and waving at Charlie’s wife. A plainer creature altogether but the boss’s daughter, which seemed to have worked out well for Charlie. He was sitting pretty, four years younger than Dom and a Minister already, whereas he – too late Dom spotted where the bitter runaway train of his thoughts was headed but couldn’t apply the brakes. Why could no day go by, no matter how richly filled with good things, without thinking about that meeting? Inevitably, bitterly, somewhere along the way, he would suffer a flashback. On bleaker days he spent hours brooding on it. Of course he knew the heart of the problem was rooted in his own expectations on that day, but knowing this didn’t help in the slightest. He had swanned in to the meeting on such a high, having topped the poll in his own constituency. They were back in government; by the skin of their teeth, but who cared, as long as they made it. The call to come and speak to the Taoiseach surely meant only one thing. A cabinet post at last. It had to be. So naturally, having built himself up, as soon as he heard the words ‘Parliamentary Secretary’, he went cold inside. Not a ministry. He would not sit at weekly cabinet meetings. He could not be introduced as Minister on public occasions or be called Minister by all and sundry. It made it worse that, judging by the warmth in the Taoiseach’s smile and voice, Dom could tell Lemass thought he was giving him a great leg up. Parliamentary Secretary was a very significant advance it seemed. He’d be number two in the Department of Finance. But I’m not in the fucking Jaysus cabinet! he wanted to scream at him.
Dom caught his Beauty’s eye and her smile helped him slow the aggressive drumbeat of his heart. Enough dark thoughts. This was a great and important national occasion. Television would change everything. Not only was he convinced of that but, if truth be told, he had a strong notion that television would be good for him. Unlike most of the cabinet, he wouldn’t look like a moron or sound like a gobshite in front of the cameras. Dom fancied he could charm the entire Nation just as he always charmed the local voters, or the cheering faithful at Party occasions. Imagine some of the older ministers, the likes of poor old MacEntee, sweating under the studio lights, or O’Moráin dribbling on in an accent that no one outside his home town could make head nor tail of. It would not take Lemass long to see the value of having men in cabinet who understood this television thing.
‘What are you smirking at?’ His Beauty pinched his arm.
‘I’m not smirking, I’m smiling.’
‘I’m looking at it, and I can assure you, it’s a smirk.’
‘I was just thinking that we are the most elegant, handsome and intriguing couple in the room. By a fair stretch.’
‘Was that really what you were thinking?’
‘More or less. Maybe not in those exact words. How are you fixed?’
He summoned a nearby waiter.
‘I’m grand.’
Placing a friendly hand on the young lad’s shoulder to prevent him dashing off, Dom took a Gold Label, knocked it back, popped the empty glass on the tray, and took another. He released his grip. ‘You’re a lifesaver.’ Now he sipped. He was beginning to feel full of the joys. ‘I was actually thinking, I’m looking forward to being interviewed on television.’
‘And why not? You’ll be in your element.’
Hands clapping and a high-pitched bossy voice silenced the crowd.
‘Attention please, ladies and gentlemen. Attention please. Thank you. An Taoiseach, Mrs Lemass, Lord Mayor, Director-General, distinguished guests, welcome. My name is Gavin Bloom, and I am the floor manager for this evening’s outside broadcast, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to be a bit of a bossy-boots and ask you all to take your seats immediately if not sooner because, as we all know, tonight’s show, the first broadcast of our new national television service, Teilifís Éireann… yes, lovely, bula bos, thank you… is a live transmission. Oh, and just to warn you, don’t be surprised if while we’re on the air you see me flapping about giving all sorts of hand signals…’
Dom made a limp-wrist gesture, murmuring in his Beauty’s ear, ‘Mostly this one.’ She slapped him softly and whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
‘Stop it, you brat.’
‘So don’t worry about what I’m up to, or any of the rest of the crew. How and ever, I will occasionally need your full attention and co-operation. For example, when a guest is introduced, or when an item has concluded, our director might want an enthusiastic burst of applause, so you will see me mime like this and that means I want you all to give me a big hand.’
Dom smirked but his Beauty shushed him before he had
a chance to make a comment.
‘When you go into the function room please, please sit in your allocated place. It’s most important that the director knows where to find you if he wants to get a shot of you, and I’m sure no one here tonight is camera-shy. Have a wonderful evening everyone.’
*
Mrs Dwan opened her door. She always had a nice smile.
‘Hello Gussie.’
‘Hello Mrs Dwan.’
Now that it came to it, Gussie was nervous. If his mam found out –
He tried to sound casual.
‘My mam said to ask if you’d do us a favour. We’re having a party in the house tonight and she was wondering if she could borrow some chairs off you.’
The smile stayed on Mrs Dwan’s face but she said nothing for a couple of seconds. ‘Chairs? Ahm, hold on there a minute so.’ She left the door open and went back up to the flat. That was no good to Gussie. He needed to get upstairs too. He didn’t have the nerve to follow her up without being invited. Maybe he should just go away. But then Mr Dwan might come round to the house to find out what was going on. He heard whispering up on the landing. He couldn’t hear any television sounds. Then Mr Dwan’s head appeared.
‘Come up, kid.’
Gussie nearly tripped himself in his anxiety to get up the stairs. Mrs Dwan wasn’t to be seen. Mr Dwan smiled at him and turned towards the kitchen. ‘So, you’re looking for chairs.’
Gussie didn’t follow. His eyes were glued to the front-room door which was only open a tiny bit. He couldn’t see in the corner, and he still couldn’t hear anything that sounded like television.
‘There’s these kitchen chairs if they’re any use to you, we can let you have a lend of them all right, but you’ll have to call back after tea because …’
Gussie pushed at the door with his foot and it creaked open enough for him to see a bit of Mrs Dwan sitting on a couch with their little boy whose name he couldn’t remember. If he pushed it a small bit more. The door squeeked and then he realised that Mr Dwan had stopped talking. Gussie slowly turned his head. Mr Dwan was not smiling. ‘What are you up to?’ Gussie felt himself go red. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Mr Dwan stepped nearer. Gussie backed away to the top of the stairs. Mr Dwan was now at the front-room door. As he looked in, Gussie thought, run, that’s the only thing to do now. Then he saw Mr Dwan’s face change. He was smiling again and it was a much bigger smile than before. He pushed the door open fully. ‘Breda, I think Gussie here would like to have a look at the television set, is that all right?’ He nodded to Gussie. ‘Well, do you want to?’ Still not sure if it was all a trick and Mr Dwan would give him a fong up the backside as soon as he got close, Gussie came forward. He went past Mr Dwan safely and stepped into the front room. There in the corner near the window was a Bush 21TG100. Wow! A twenty-one inch! But there was no programme on, just the same test picture he had seen in the shop. Mr Dwan read his mind. ‘Nothing to see yet. It’s not starting ’til seven o’clock tonight. Sorry about that. We have it on just to make sure the signal is all right.’ Gussie was torn between disappointment and awe. A television, not in a shop but right there in a room. On their road. A twenty-one inch. Even if there was nothing on it yet, there would be later on tonight and every night from now on.
‘So, the chairs. Do you want to go ask your mother if she still wants them? Don’t worry if she’s changed her mind.’
Sometimes Gussie was no fool. He got the message and he thought fair dues to Mr Dwan for letting him off. After he left the flat he took one last longing look at the blue glow in the corner of the Dwans’ front room, before walking on through the rain to Mrs Storan’s.
*
Seven p.m. Nationwide transmission had begun. The live broadcast would start later but first, the audience in the Gresham Hotel responded to Gavin’s mimed invitation and looked at the monitors to see President Éamon de Valera deliver a pre-recorded welcome message. He sat in the library room of Áras an Úachtarán, his face angled slightly away from the camera lens. Behind the glasses his eyes blinked and shifted about. His voice was as precise as ever, but slower.
‘I am privileged in being the first to address you on our new service, Teilifís Éireann. I hope the service will provide for you all sources of recreation and pleasure, but also information, instruction and knowledge…’
He stumbled a little and paused. It occurred to Dom that the whole country would be thinking how, on screen, in black and white, the old Chief looked ancient, from another time.
‘I must admit that sometimes when I think of television and its immense power I feel somewhat afraid. Like atomic energy, it can be used for incalculable good but it can also do irreparable harm…’
Jesus Christ, Dom thought. Comparing television to the atomic bomb? That’s the ticket Dev. Talk it up.
‘… in the hands of man an instrument so powerful to influence the thoughts and actions of the multitude. It can build up the character of a whole people, inducing sturdiness and vigour and confidence. On the other hand, it can lead through demoralisation to decadence and dissolution…’
Dom looked around at all the silent attentive tables. Were others as impatient as he was with this tripe? For Christ’s sake, was this a wedding or a wake? What fucking century did Dev think they were in, let alone what decade? He finished his drink but could see no one available to bring him another.
‘Sometimes one hears, when one urges higher standards in information and recreation services, that we must give the people what they want… and competition unfortunately leads in the wrong direction and so standards become lower and lower.’
‘Just like our mood, listening to this, ha?’ Dom muttered, leaning in to his Beauty, who shushed him. She was right, he’d better behave himself. But honest to the sweet living Christ! could the old Chief not at least try and pretend he thought this television thing might be a good development for the Nation, some joy and entertainment for misfortunate people at least? Dom began to notice how poorly Dev related to the camera. As if he was avoiding its gaze. It made the old man look shifty.
‘You, the people who will ultimately determine what the programmes on Teilifís Éireann are to be. If you insist on having presented to you the good and the true and the beautiful, you will get these. I find it hard to believe, for example, that the person who views the grandeurs of the heavens or the wonders of this marvellous mysterious world in which the good God has placed us will not find more pleasure in that than in viewing, for example, some squalid domest– ah domestic brawl or a street fight.’
Dev faltered. Dom wondered was the poor old goat forgetting his lines? Who wanted to hear about street brawls tonight? He knew no one could tell the Chief what to say but why hadn’t the Party sent out someone to keep an eye on him while he recorded this? Drop a hint or two to keep it light and try and look as if he was enjoying himself, for the love and honour of Christ. This was a disaster. People tuning in all over the country, all excited and they get old Tiresias squinting out at them, prophesying doom? How much longer was he going to ramble on? Dom noticed that the shot suddenly changed to a new angle. He knew that meant they had stopped filming, moved the camera and started again.
‘I have great hopes in this new service. I am confident that those who are in charge will do everything in their power to make it useful for the nation…’
Dom smiled. Ah, maybe someone did have a word in his ear. End on a high note please, Mr President, before the whole country switches off.
‘… and they will bear in mind that we are an old nation and we have our own distinctive characterisics, and it is desirable that these will be preserved. I am sure that they will do their part and, as I have said, it is for the public now to do theirs. I wish all those who are in charge God speed. And I wish all of you a happy New Year. Beannacht Dé againn.’
As the old man faded to black, Gavin Bloom raised his hands high and mimed applause.
*
‘Girls were made to love and kiss,
And who am I to interfere with this?’
His mam said he was only seven, of course he couldn’t stay up for the party, so Martin Strong sat at the top of the stairs peeking down, trying not to be seen. The hall below him was packed, mostly with men smoking and drinking out of bottles. He recognised one of his uncle Seáns, and Mr Reidy from next door and Mr Storan, Mikey. His aunt Marg came out of the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches. Hands grabbed at them and the plate was empty in seconds.
‘Am I ashamed to follow nature’s way?
Shall I be blamed if God has made me gay?’
Someone in the back room was singing one of those stupid old songs. Martin couldn’t see him from the top of the stairs. Through the smoke he spotted his Auntie Mona and his Auntie Una, and Mrs Storan, another of his Uncle Seáns and Mr Tuite, from three doors away and Uncle Peader Crowley and there was his mam with a big smile on her face, nodding her head and humming. Everyone was waving a glass or a bottle along with the song. Martin knew that Ritchie and Gussie had been let stay up for the party because they were old enough now but he couldn’t see them. Nor his dad. The whole crowd in the back room joined in with the singer.
‘I’m a man and kiss them when I can!’
Then everybody clapped and said, Good man, Josie. Beautiful Josie, beautiful. Your Noble Call. Martin still hadn’t a clue who Josie was until he heard him talking.
‘I call on – the woman of the house herself. Come on now Ann, we haven’t heard from you yet tonight.’
It was Mr Benson from up the road. Martin wondered why he put on such a funny voice when he was singing.
‘No, no, I’m grand here just joining in.’
‘Go ’way ourra that now, you know the world of songs.’
Martin was worried about Mr Benson trying to make his mam sing when she didn’t want to. Whenever she sang along with the radio it was only humming or la-la-la. What if she tried to sing a whole song now and couldn’t remember the words? Would everyone laugh at her? Mrs Storan blew out a puff of smoke and poked his mam’s arm.
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