As he received what he estimated was his third spontaneous round of applause, Éamon wondered how long he had been speaking. Surely it must be twenty minutes at least. He felt a little tired. There had been some stumbles and hesitations but he was satisfied that his voice had remained strong and, on the whole, he didn’t think he had thus far forgotten anything of importance. But it was time perhaps to get to the heart of the matter. Not many Statesmen were honoured with an invitation to address the joint Houses of Congress. Éamon did not wish to outstay his generous welcome.
‘An Irish poet, thinking some one hundred and twenty years ago of the role he would wish his nation to play, addressed her in these words:
“Oh Ireland be it thy high duty
To teach the world the might of moral beauty
And stamp God’s image truly on the struggling soul.”
President Kennedy…’
He knew this was the moment that everyone in the chamber was waiting for; to hear in what tone and context he would invoke the now-sacred name. Éamon had given a great deal of thought to this part of his speech, knowing it would be quoted in the New York Times and heard in newscasts the length and breadth of the nation.
‘President Kennedy, in his address at Amherst College, thinking of the future that he would wish and that he foresaw for America, said he wished an America whose military strength would be matched by its moral strength, the moral strength of its people, its wealth by their wisdom, its power by their purpose, an America that would not be afraid of grace and beauty. An America in short, he said, that would win respect not merely because of its strength but because of its culture…’
Éamon thought of the cheering crowds as he drove with him down O’Connell Street barely a year ago, their hungry love for this graceful, cultured emigrant son. He had stood to acknowledge them, safe that day amongst his kin, waving and smiling his golden smile. Their aspiration, their future.
‘… I am sure that that is the America that you would want, as it is the Ireland that we would want. But these things can only be secured by undeviating pursuit of the higher ideals that mean the full life of the people. I… Mr Speaker… I would like to confess and confess freely that this is an outstanding day in my own life. To see recognised as I have here, in full, the recognition of the rights of the Irish people and the independence of the Irish people in a way that was not at all possible forty-five years ago –’
The applause sounded heartfelt. Éamon waited until it had died before allowing one small, sentimental perhaps, but sincere, addition.
‘I have longed to come back and say this to you.’
Eight: October 10th
Dom woke beside his Beauty on the morning after the worst day of his life. When he got back from Dublin late last night he had briefly entertained her with a lighthearted version of events. In his retelling the whole farrago might have been a court case straight out of Somerville and Ross. But it was not easy to hide his self-disgust so, pretending to be exhausted, he escaped to bed early. After a couple of Alka-Seltzers and a good night’s sleep surely he would be Happy Dom again.
The most depressing thing was how little premonition he had had beforehand of how badly the thing would affect him. When the Chief Whip whispered word earlier this week that the date for the General Election had been decided so they needed to get this drunk-driving business out of way as quickly as possible, Dom said he couldn’t agree more. Luckily, no journalist had got on to the story yet but this particular Garda was proving oddly impervious to all manner of persuasions. The Chief Whip wondered, was he a Blueshirt? Dom said he had no idea.
‘Did you say something that really got up his nose?’
‘I wish I could remember.’
‘Maybe he’s just one of these balubas you know, with a bit of a chip, delighted with himself at catching out a member of the government. Fellahs like him are dangerous to have in uniform. A good slap is what he needs.’
At that moment Dom couldn’t have agreed more.
‘Anyway, for whatever reason, the bollocks is determined to drag you into court. So it’ll have to be done, one way or another.’
A couple of days later when Michael Liston explained the plan of action to him, Dom had laughed out loud. It was smart, it was brazen; a great stroke. He couldn’t have come up with better himself. Soon this miserable business would be all over and he could concentrate on getting ready for the election. There was good news on that front. Michael Liston mentioned that an exceptionally large donation from an enthusiastic supporter, Guiney by name, had swollen Dom’s election war chest. Perfect timing.
So, up to about half-four yesterday, the world was looking just fine and dandy; right up to the moment Dom looked Garda Drury in the eye. The bit of hugger-mugger, waiting in Liston’s car a hundred yards from Green Street courthouse, had been a laugh. They watched the exodus at four o’clock. He recognised a few of the journos heading off for the weekend; casually strolling away from a front-page scoop. If they only knew. This was fun, the stuff of legend. Dom wondered who had come up with this wheeze. Surely not some Legion of Mary sourpuss in the Justice Department? Lemass himself? He must have given the go-ahead at least. At about four-fifteen, when the street was deserted and anyone who might make life difficult had gone home, Seamus Maguire, Senior Council and long-time Party stalwart, a thin man in a fat profession, came walking with intent towards Michael Liston’s car. He slid in next to Dom. The gravity of his tone could not disguise his pleasure at the caper. He would allow a few months’ grace and then begin to feature it as one of his prime after-dinner anecdotes.
‘Are we ready for our ordeal?’
‘Have I a choice?’
‘Just so it’s absolutely clear to you what is about to happen. This will be a normal court case in every sense. Justice will be done and seen to be done. The fact that it will be seen by rather fewer people than usual is accidental and incidental. We will enter a guilty plea and I will then invite you to grovel to the court. I presume you’ve prepared a short oration admitting egregious error of judgement, highlighting your generous financial reparation to the businessman concerned and expressing a sincere hope that you will never again have cause to appear on such a grievous charge, or indeed any charge.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You will then submit to a vigorous tongue-lashing from his Honour just for the records. There’ll be a fine. And then we all go for a drink. Clear?’ Dom nodded. ‘Let’s go.’
Just six pairs of eyes gazed at Dom when he walked into the courtroom. His own solicitor Nestor, two court officials, the State legal team Finnegan and O’Donnell and, sitting behind them, a Garda. Not having met the man since the night of the car accident, which meant, in effect, that he had never met him at all, Dom hadn’t a bull’s notion what Garda Michael Drury looked like. This, presumably, was he. Not an obvious bitter old Blueshirt type. Younger than he expected, with strong green eyes in an open country face. No more than thirty. Dom felt the first twinge of unease. The emptiness of the press and public galleries began to seem odd, creepy. Maguire motioned him to sit and nodded to Finnegan, who nodded to one of the court officials, who opened a door behind the judge’s podium and looked in. The official held it open for a few seconds, then the judge appeared. Dom did not recognise him nor, when his name was announced, did it mean anything to him. ‘District Justice O’Murchú presiding.’
It all proceeded exactly as Maguire predicted. He stood and entered a plea of guilty on behalf of his client. Counsel for the State accepted the plea. Maguire said that his client would be very grateful for the opportunity to apologise for his lapse and put his sincere remorse on record. He craved the indulgence of the court in this matter. Justice O’Murchú graciously allowed him a short statement. Dom thanked the court and abased himself for several minutes, in a manner he thought abject enough to satisfy even a Presbyterian elder. Justice O’Murchú, a Catholic and an alcoholic, acknowledged the fulsome sincerity of Dom’s contrition, while recoiling fr
om the original lapse of judgement. He then enjoyed listening to himself deliver what Dom thought was, even by the standards of a district court judge, an extraordinarily sententious finger-wag. His thoughts drifted elsewhere. It occurred to him that proceedings were almost at an end and it was clear that Garda Drury would not even be asked to present his evidence. He, the only reason they were all present, was being ignored by everyone, even the State’s legal team. Was he sitting back there regretting his hubris or burning with resentment at being outwitted? Dom could not resist the temptation to sneak a look. He casually adjusted his sitting position, shifting more to his left and crossing his legs. It now required only a slight, seemingly careless, turn of the head to bring his adversary into view. When he did this he got a little shock. Garda Drury was already looking at him and did not flinch or falter when their eyes met. In the couple of seconds Dom managed to hold his gaze before turning away, he read a particular emotion in those green eyes. He could even put a simple word on it: disappointment. And clearly he was the source of this disappointment. It had not occurred to Dom until now, but could it be that the young Garda had never had any malice, bitterness or animosity towards him? That he had done nothing more than follow the law, believing that Dom was the kind of decent proper man who would expect and want justice to take its normal course?
Now, the voices in the old high-ceilinged courtroom sounded hollow, its emptiness an accusation. Dom, who loved an audience, who prided himself on his ability to woo people to his side, had conspired to keep them away. Dom, the great debater, had allowed the contest to be fixed so that his only opponent was silenced. A shiver of what Dom recognised as shame made his heart sore.
Justice O’Murchú rose. They all stood. Court adjourned; case concluded. Dom hadn’t even heard how much the fine was. Garda Drury was first to leave. Alone. Maguire seemed to relish what had just taken place.
‘Excellent. Justice served, the media rabble outfoxed, and the boy in blue handed the dunce’s cap, which, frankly, fitted him better than his own. Drinks, gentlemen? The Brazen Head?’
His Beauty stirred and opened her eyes. Her smile was innocent, her yawn contented. She poked him in the ribs. ‘Good, you’re awake. I wouldn’t mind breakfast in bed.’ This suited Dom. It allowed him escape her loving gaze until he could persuade himself that he in any way deserved its comforting warmth.
*
Ritchie kept his eye fixed on the ball as number 8 moved into the penalty area. The tackle would have to be clean and perfectly timed. Ritchie slid in, felt the ball at his toe and poked it clear. Number 8 went over like he’d had the legs cut from under him, but Ritchie kept his cool, stayed on his feet, got to the ball first and had a quick glance round. Number 6 for Ballynanty Rovers was steaming towards him. Ritchie didn’t think he could beat him, but he had just enough time to make a decent pass. It had to be either Tony Coughlan, far out on the left wing, his arm up, screaming, or dink it right to Frankie Horan standing in the centre circle. Ritchie could hear trainer Dick O’Dea roaring but there was no time to figure out what. He knew the simplest, neatest, most sensible thing to do. He leaned left, shaping to send the long ball to Tony. Sure enough, their number 6 was fooled. As he ran at Ritchie, he shifted slightly to block him on the left. Ritchie, with no need to look again, sidefooted the ball ten yards right onto Frankie Horan’s toe. Off went Frankie on his bike and Ritchie jogged backwards to his defensive position. Job done for now. He heard a couple of admiring comments from some of the bystanders. ‘Good lad, safe as houses.’ ‘Mr Dependable.’ St Dominic Savio won the game 2–0, which put them into the under-sixteens semi-final. There was a lot of shouting and singing as they changed their clothes over at the railway wall. Kevin Finn, of course, acted like he’d won the game all on his own when he hadn’t even scored a goal. Dick O’Dea went round tapping fellahs on the head and saying, ‘You did the biz,’ which was his favourite compliment. Ritchie said thanks to La-La Donohue who always minded the bundles of clothes for them during the games. Poor old La-La. Ritchie thought it was lousy the way some of the fellahs imitated him behind his back, even though Ritchie himself sometimes asked La-La particular questions that would make him say things that sounded funny because of his speech defect.
‘What did you call the ref today, La-La?’
‘Hi challed him a what whucker.’
La-La enjoyed people laughing when he said ‘what whucker’ because the poor fellah thought he was being funny, so Ritchie told himself that was OK. It wasn’t being nasty like some of the other fellahs, imitating his drag leg and getting him to feel himself with his twisted arm and making dirty noises. That wasn’t nice. Especially when La-La was so loyal to the club. He hadn’t ever missed a Dominic Savio match. The only thing Ritchie didn’t like about La-La was the way, once in a while, he’d stand too close, talking, while Ritchie was trying to get changed. There was an awful stink off him and it always made Ritchie think of how sweaty and smelly he must be after the match and how there was nowhere in Cals Park for players to wash. Also he sort of didn’t like the way La-La seemed to stare at him sometimes as he took his shorts off. It wasn’t only him, he did it with other players too. Some didn’t stay as quiet as Ritchie about it.
‘Jesus Christ, back away there La-La, what are you trying to do, pull my wire or what?’
If Dick heard any talk like that he always took La-La’s side.
‘Hey, enough of that now. Lay off. Laurence only wants to talk to you about the match.’
That’s why Ritchie never shouted at La-La when it happened to him. Dick was in charge and he knew how to handle things. As far as Ritchie was concerned, if more people listened to Dick the team would be a whole lot better. Even though he’d played with all these lads since under-twelves he didn’t pal around with them. His mam had warned him from the start, especially about some of the fellahs from Hogan Road, and she was right. Ritchie just liked to dress and get out of Cals Park fast after a match, so he could go home and have a wash. As he pulled himself over the wall and headed up the railway line he heard Dick shouting, ‘Training Wednesday night, Strong-boy.’
Everything was going well for Ritchie just now. They won the match today, his inter-cert results had turned out a bit better than he expected and, best of all, when his gang went to the Stella last Saturday, the night after the results came out, he finally chatted up Gretta Lehane. Ritchie was surprised how it happened. They all got on the dancefloor together because Brendan Bowyer was going mad onstage as usual, singing ‘Kiss Me Quick’. Next thing, there was Gretta, smiling right at him. Ritchie thought she was beautiful, with long black hair and dark eyes. Her whole face was really pretty but every time Ritchie thought about her in the last week he remembered that he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her tits. She was only fifteen but they were really perfect and, whatever kind of blouse she’d been wearing, they jigged up and down when she was dancing. Especially to Brendan Bowyer. Tonight all his gang was going to see Kissin’ Cousins at the Savoy. Peter Malone told him that definitely Gretta Lehane would be there and he should ask her out, which was easy for someone like Peter to say. He could play lead guitar and he knew everything about every band and every record. He could say things like Brendan Bowyer’s version of ‘I Ran All the Way Home’ was better than The Impalas’ original. His father gave him money to have LPs and 45s posted over from America way before they came out here. He thought Manfred Mann was better than the Beatles. He said ‘Do Wa Diddi’ was the best single of the year and should have been number one. Peter was starting a band and wanted Ritchie to be the drummer but Ritchie hadn’t a hope of being able to buy a drum kit. Even with his summer job, after he gave his wages to his mam he only got back enough to go to the Stella once a week and once to the pictures. If he had a girlfriend, he didn’t know what he’d do. That made him even more nervous about Gretta Lehane. What if she let him kiss her? Or let him do more and then wanted to go out with him? Still, more than anything, he hoped she’d be at the pictures tonight.
>
The key was in the front door but the house was silent when Ritchie went in.
‘Mam?’ There was no answer but she must be around somewhere. Having a lie down maybe? His dad had probably taken Francis and Martin out with him because they drove her mad sometimes, especially when they were hanging around the house all day. If he went upstairs to wash himself he might disturb her. Ritchie stood in the hall listening, not knowing what to do next. Then he heard a distant voice. ‘Great drying weather, isn’t it?’ Mrs Reidy from next door. Then he heard his mam’s voice. ‘Oh, you couldn’t ask for better, thank God.’ His mam sounded cheerful. Ritchie was relieved. He went to look out the back window at her taking down washing from the line. The sheets were shiny white in the sun and the wind wrapped them around her as she took the pegs off. Ritchie saw an envelope on the table addressed to him and he knew straight away from the logo in the corner that it was from Krups. He picked it up.
The letter had been opened.
Ritchie’s anger was like what happened when he blushed. It rose in a second and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He heard his mam’s voice chatting away to Mrs Reidy, happy as anything. He started to try and force himself to be calm, telling himself his mam had only opened the letter because she saw it was from Krups and she was just anxious to find out what it said. His mam only wanted what was best for him, that was all, and she was anxious to see him fixed up now that he was finished school. Ritchie managed to push away his anger and felt better again. He stared at the letter, afraid to open it.
Of all the interviews for apprenticeships he had gone to in the last couple of months, this was the one he most wanted. His mam kept going on about the Germans, how reliable they were and Krups was a very good name and they paid very well and they took care of their workers and it was perfect because the new factory was only ten minutes’ walk from their house. On the form he had to choose which trade he was interested in. When he asked his dad about it his dad said, ‘I don’t know,’ as usual, then said, ‘Well, you’re very careful about doing things the right way. And you’ve a good eye. You’re very precise about things. You like things to look proper.’ Thinking about what his dad said, Ritchie began to think he might like to be a carpenter. But his mam said she didn’t see what a company that made electrical goods would want with carpenters. ‘What will they want plenty of?’ she asked. Ritchie thought about this and put down ‘machinist’. His mam said that was more sensible.
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