‘The Minister for Education, a h-Úachtarán.’
Éamon remembered that Dom did not have much Irish, so when he felt the powerful insistent grip, it amused him to offer the Minister a lengthy salutation in his native tongue and so force him to summon up what little store he had in reply. Dom, for politeness and form’s sake, welcomed him with his school Irish. Briefly. ‘Dia dhuit agus fáilte, a hÚachtaráin.’ Then he continued in English, eyeballing Dev directly as he did so, even though he was virtually one hundred per cent certain that the old Chief couldn’t see sky or sea these days.
‘And can I say how delighted I am to welcome you here today. And how appropriate that you should be opening a new school in the county where you grew up and received your earliest education.’
Dom was gratified at the ‘hear-hears’ from the little group crowded around them. The old man’s hand was ice-cold, the grip flaccid, tired. But, aware of press cameras clicking, Dom held on and even used his other hand to rest lightly on Dev’s shoulder, implying greater intimacy.
‘And, of course, congratulations on your recent historic victory. I can safely say that, in this part of the country, it was never in doubt for an instant.’
Cheers and applause for that one. Well pleased, Dom allowed the long-suffering Colonel Seán to take charge of shepherding Dev to the podium.
‘Nice work. Those photos will look great.’
Suddenly Michael Liston was beside him. Dom nodded towards the President and his aide-de-camp.
‘Thanks. I’d say most soldiers would gladly take their chances in Katanga rather than suffer the drudgery of that job. Like a Labrador, guiding him from one Republican grave to another, wreaths, twenty-one-gun salutes, day after day after day. Jesus.’
‘He’ll deserve whatever pension and perks come his way, all right.’
Dom noticed the boy at Michael’s side and realised it must be his youngest. What was his name again? This was ironic. Michael was usually the man who’d whisper a name in Dom’s ear when needed. It must be two years since he last saw the boy. Growing fast. He hunkered down to his height.
‘Well, hello youngfellah, do you remember me at all? … No, sure, why should you? The last time I saw you, I had more hair and you were only half the size you are now.’
‘Tomorrow’s my birthday.’
‘Matthew, I told you not to be saying that.’
That was it. Matthew. Dom relaxed.
‘Ah sure, why wouldn’t you want to tell me about your birthday, Matthew? Isn’t it a very important day? What age will you be?’
As Dom spoke it hit him, but too late to shut up. Of course. Poor Eva died giving birth to him. No wonder Michael didn’t want the youngfellah reminding people. Did Matthew know his birthday was his mother’s anniversary? Surely not.
‘Seven.’
Was it really seven years since Eva Liston died? Dom knew from Michael’s manner not to say anything. Not so much as a whisper about it. Instead, discreetly, he took out his wallet and found a crisp clean orange note.
‘Well, Matthew, seven is a very important age. Here’s something for your piggy-bank. Do you have a piggy-bank?’
Eyes lowered, the boy nodded. Jesus, he was a morose child. Not even the prospect of ten bob could wring a smile out of him. Michael Liston pressed on his shoulder.
‘What do you say?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it, Matthew. Tell me, what do you think of this new school? Would you like to be a pupil here?’
Matthew didn’t seem to know what to say to that. He looked up at his father. Dom was surprised at the odd shiftiness in Michael’s eyes, the evasive tone of his reply. The question hadn’t been a serious one. Dom would have been surprised if Michael intended sending his child to the Christian Brothers.
‘It’s a lovely new school. But ah… Matthew and I… we’re off to Dublin aren’t we?
This was news to Dom. Michael moving to Dublin? He hadn’t mentioned it.
‘Well, that sounds brilliant, Matthew.’
Matthew nodded but didn’t look thrilled about it. The child was definitely a long cold drink of water. As Dom stood up, Michael muttered in his ear.
‘No big deal. The twins are going to uni in the autumn, so they’re off my hands and I thought it was time to give Matthew a go at boarding school. It’s near Dublin, so it’s better if I’m close by.’
Dom suspected it was more a case of Michael wanting to go to Dublin and dumping the child into a boarding school to suit himself. There was definitely some other agenda. Michael Liston was always three steps ahead. It was what had made him so valuable to Dom over the years.
‘I was going to talk to you about it. Maybe you might introduce me to a few people in Dublin, get me started.’
‘Of course. Say no more.’
Michael nodded. He seemed oddly uncomfortable, as if he had been caught out in some way, so it was a relief when an eager young Christian Brother approached to tell the Minister that Brother Scully was anxious to get the ball rolling. Dom took his seat on the platform next to Dev, who seemed to ignore him. Was he in a snot, or just lost in thought, preparing his oration? Or dozing? When Brother Scully began proceedings, Dom inclined his head towards the speaker and gazed thoughtfully, as if listening intently. He was looking forward to tomorrow’s press coverage. There should be lots of smiling pictures and, with any luck, the reports would create the impression that Dom had carried a hod and personally plastered the walls. Launching a new school was the best kind of publicity, even more so when the building was so impressive. Guiney had delivered on the construction end, to be fair to him, but the design was the big surprise. It was innovative and exuberant. Not adjectives he’d ever have imagined himself using where the Christian Brothers were concerned, but credit where it was due. Even though the memory of Father Coveney’s sneering tone still stung, he wouldn’t ever have considered swapping Clongowes Wood and his Jesuit education for the dreariness of a Christian Brothers day school in this tough old city. Even though the pupils in the audience today were hand-picked and scrubbed, they still had the whiff of deprivation about them. What chance had most of these poor little hoors? Their fathers either had lousy jobs or no jobs, so most of these lads would never get beyond primary school anyway, because their parents couldn’t afford the fees, pure and simple. Some families had so many kids they could end up with five children all of secondary school age. Where would they get the money to pay for them? They’d be forced instead to make terrible choices, pick the brightest and pay for him to stay at school as far as Inter Cert while the others were put out to find some kind of work. That was the inevitable rhythm of a school like this. How many of these grinning galoots sitting in front of him, would get near the Leaving Cert? Dom realised that the answer made him genuinely sad. He liked the poorer classes, he admired all kinds of things about them, their ability to get on with things in a rough and ready way, their distinctive use of language, the native wit and the hilarious malapropisms. He loved the banter in the pubs and on the street. But Dom was not self-deluding. He was glad he wasn’t one of them.
Could a shiny new school like this make a difference to the underprivileged? If these young gougers looking up at him actually enjoyed their few years in primary school would that make them more inclined to want more education, even with the dreaded Christian Brothers? A bright, well-designed building like this surely helped make education more interesting, happier? Dom spotted Michael Liston’s son in the crowd, his dark head bent low. Certainly happier than whatever fate awaited that poor motherless child in boarding school. If, as Minister, he built more schools like this one, would education start to seem more attractive to poorer children? Dom was beginning to feel a twinge, a tickle of excitement. A massive school-building programme, a nationwide effort. Could this be the seed of his Big Idea? Would this capture the popular imagination? A new school every week! Not a bad banner line. Imagine all the positive publicity if he was personally opening a school a w
eek.
Dev suddenly stood, unaided, and stepped carefully to the lectern. Now boys, Dom thought, you think the leather strap is frightening. You think no one can inflict torture like a Christian Brother. Well, after you’ve listened to Dev making a speech, you’ll understand what cruel and unusual punishment really is.
‘Brother Superior, Minister, ladies and gentlemen, boys… As I journeyed here this morning to attend this marvellous event I was thinking with what… delightful temperate weather Almighty God has blessed us today, and what a worthwhile task lay before me, for there is nothing so worthwhile as education. It is the key to true happiness. For remember, boys, happiness is not something you can hold in your hand, it is a… a condition of the mind and if we are chronically dissatisfied and discontented, that puts an end to our happiness. And there is much to be happy about. We have here a wonderful little country. We have not here any of the extremes of temperature, the tornados and cyclones… and blizzards which afflict other parts of the world… earthquakes…’
Perhaps Dev’s slow, stumbling delivery had sapped Dom’s enthusiasm but, when he resumed thinking about his school-building idea, the air seemed to have gone out of the tyres. Too costly, too slow. By the time sites were found, designs commissioned, planning permission acquired and, of course the Church consulted – Oh Christ! – three or four years would pass before a sod was turned anywhere. What good would that be to Dom? The next election would come and go and he’d have nothing to show the voters but an office full of architectural drawings. Forget it. Yet he knew he was on to something. If only there was a simple, clean way to make a big splash. Force people to sit up and pay attention. The children of the poor were leaving school too early. That was the nub of it. They were not getting the education that was their due.
‘… but thankfully, we are now a free, independent people. Free to make our own laws and free to decide our future…’
Dev’s words resonated and suddenly the simplest of phrases presented itself to Dom: Free Education. There it was. The catch-cry of a Big Idea, at least. Two words that required no further explanation. Dom would give the children of Ireland free education. It was astonishing he hadn’t thought of it before. Of course he hadn’t a clue how he’d do it or what it might cost. For the moment he didn’t even want to think about that part of it. In case it put him off.
Seventeen: September 10th
The first thing that Francis thought about when he woke up was Ian Barry’s yellow cardigan, which was the brightest yellow, and his tartan trousers, which were the shortest trousers he had ever seen on a boy. They were more like underpants. They made his legs look so long compared to Francis and the other boys, who all wore trousers almost down to their knees and long socks nearly up to their knees. Ian Barry had ankle socks. They were white. And shiny black shoes with a buckle. Out of the hundreds of new boys in the yard last Monday he was the one that Francis couldn’t stop looking at. Even the way he walked was different. He seemed to bounce along, his arms swinging gently and the curls at the end of his sandy hair hopping up and down as he moved. Francis saw some other boys staring at him too and heard one of them say ‘Fancy Pants’ and his pals laughed.
There were noises from the bunk underneath Francis, little squeaking sounds. Was Martin having a nightmare? It sounded like he was tossing and turning and trying to catch his breath. Francis looked over at Ritchie and Gussie who were still asleep too. Ritchie was turned towards him, his head on his arm, one leg hanging out the side. He was breathing quietly. Francis knew he had an important match today. Ritchie told him that, if they won, Krups would be top of the inter-firm league with only three games to go. He was going to watch the match on his way to the library. Ritchie always did his best and never made a mistake. Francis liked watching him play.
Gussie, on the flat of his back, mouth open, let out a big snort and turned to the wall, pulling the blankets with him. He had told Francis he might bring him to see The Heroes of Telemark this afternoon. Gussie was really looking forward to seeing the film because Richard Harris was in it and he had met Richard Harris for real. One day, ages ago, he came home from work all excited, saying, ‘Guess who sat himself at the bar in the departure lounge all on his own because his flight to New York was delayed?’ No one knew. ‘Richard Harris,’ Gussie said, ‘and I served him and he started talking to me. He asked how was life in the old town these days and he said he’d love to get home more often. He’d been off in Norway making a new film.’ Until Gussie said ‘film’ Francis didn’t know who Richard Harris was. Now he wondered if he’d ever seen him in a film.
‘From New York he’s flying to straight to Hawaii to make another film. He said to me “It’s called Hawaii, funnily enough.”’ Gussie laughed. ‘He said it was a tough life but someone had to do it.’ Gussie laughed again. ‘You know the way he looks big on screen? Well, sitting at the bar right in front of me he looked huge. Powerful. There’s something about him, all right. He really stands out. Even if you’d never seen any of his films you’d know there was something special about him. But he was as nice as anything. Real ordinary, you know.’
Francis had never seen Gussie so excited. Ever since he started working in the bar in Shannon Airport, he often talked about famous people who flew in from America, but he had never spoken to any of them and, from the things Gussie said about them, none of them sounded very nice. But Richard Harris seemed to be different. Even though he was stuck there for three hours waiting for his flight he never complained once. And even though he drank like a fish, he never got drunk. He just got friendlier. And he wanted Gussie to serve him all the time. Vodka, he drank. After Gussie served him a few times he said, ‘Ah, just give me the bottle, for Jaysus’ sake,’ and Gussie knew that Ollie, the head barman, couldn’t give out to him for letting him have the bottle because he was Richard Harris. Then he poured himself a big glass and asked Gussie loads of questions about himself, and even though Ollie was always telling the trainee barmen to keep their distance and not bother the customers, Gussie knew that it was all right to talk because Richard Harris wanted him to, so he did.
What Gussie, despite frequent repetitions of the story, never told anyone, not his friends, nor his workmates, nor family, nobody, was how, after many jokes and anecdotes, Richard Harris asked for a second glass to be put on the bar counter. As he poured a reckless measure into it he asked, ‘Am I right, my friend Gussie, in thinking you are an Augustine and not an Aenghus?’ Gussie, who had always been embarrassed at his name, just nodded, expecting to be teased. But Richard Harris’ blue eyes looked kind as he said, ‘A remarkable man, your namesake, a profound philosopher and the author of a prayer that every poor benighted Irishman should commit to memory and murmur at every available opportunity. Do you know what the prayer is? Do you know what your namesake famously begged of God?’ Gussie hadn’t a clue. He shook his head and Richard Harris just stared at him for a long time before he spoke. ‘“God, make me good – but not yet.” What about that ha?’ Then he smiled, lifted his glass and pushed the other one towards Gussie. ‘So, a toast, young Augustine. Never mind that old fucker’ – seeing Gussie look towards Ollie, who was spying on him from the far end of the bar – ‘Do your own thing. Never be afraid to do your own thing. Pick it up there. Join me in a toast. “God, make me good – but not yet.”’ As Richard Harris swallowed, Gussie decided he’d better knock his back and the burn inside him made his eyes water even as Richard Harris’ laser blues fixed on him like a brother, and his laugh was cracked and full and warm. To be enfolded in such giant charisma was more intoxicating than the vodka.
But Francis and the rest of the family only heard about the huge tip placed casually on the counter when Richard Harris’ flight was finally called. Francis still remembered how Gussie had taken the folded up note from his pocket as he came to that part of the story and opened it slowly to show them. Twenty pounds!
‘Imagine, growing up around here and ending up a huge Hollywood star.’
Since that
day, any time Richard Harris’ name was spoken, Gussie always said those same words.
‘Imagine, growing up around here and ending up a huge Hollywood star.’
No wonder his big brother was dying to to see The Heroes of Telemark. Today was his first day off since it came to the Savoy. He would definitely go this afternoon and maybe he really would bring Francis with him. Sometimes Gussie said he’d do things and then he’d change his mind or just forgot to do the thing he said, but Francis never really minded that because then Gussie, all of a sudden, would do a really nice thing and it would be a brilliant surprise. Like one day, a long time ago, when Francis was much smaller and Gussie was still going to school, he came flying up the road on his bike and, without telling Mam or anyone, just grabbed Francis, lifted him on to the bar of his bike and carried him off. He wouldn’t even say where they were going. Next thing they arrived at Sarsfield Barracks. There were hundreds of people there, all pushing up against the railings staring into the barracks field. Gussie hoisted Francis onto his shoulders and then he saw the most surprising thing; a crashed plane. It looked huge, nearly half the size of the field. It was tipped over on its side with one wing broken and the other wing up in the air. There were soldiers and Gardaí all around it. ‘What do you think of that?’ Gussie said. ‘It’s a Constellation. The pilot had to crash-land. It’s a miracle it didn’t blow up.’ Francis didn’t know why Gussie had cycled home to collect him and bring him to see this, but he was delighted he had.
His two big brothers were so big now their bed looked tiny. Two lumps, his mam called them. Francis was glad she saved up and got bunks for him and Martin. It was even better than having his own bed because he was so high up. From underneath he heard a moan and then Martin went completely quiet. Had he woken up out of his nightmare? Francis wanted to see but he knew if he peeped over and Martin was awake he’d say something and then Francis would answer back and then Martin would start kicking him from underneath and then Francis would throw something down at him and then it would turn into a real fight. But Francis didn’t want anything to happen today that would get him into trouble. His mam was allowing him to go to the library this morning on his own for the first time, which he really wanted to do because he was hoping to borrow the book that Ian Barry had shown him. Ian Barry’s book wasn’t from a library; it was his own. He said his daddy bought it for him in Dublin. Francis had never known anyone who called his father ‘daddy’. He had heard English children say it on television all right but Ian Barry definitely wasn’t English. He sounded just like all the other boys, which was surprising because Ian Barry looked so different from everyone else with his yellow cardigan and his funny tartan pants.
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