So what about this latest bad news that was bringing him to Charlie’s house, with Michael Liston at his side? Dom knew he needed to look and sound upset at the very least and possibly angry as he delivered the hammer-blow. Although, from the expansive and ebullient manner Charlie greeted them when they came knocking on his impressive front door, Dom guessed he had already heard. It would be the Lizard’s style to deal with bad news this way. Anyway, it seemed there was no point pussyfooting around this.
‘Jack has confirmed. He’s putting his name forward.’
In other words, it’s over, pal. The shift of Charlie’s eyebrow was so slight it could either have meant ‘Is that so?’, or ‘I know that already.’
‘The votes aren’t there, Charlie, they just ain’t there.’
No howls of disappointment or rage. No demand to know the whys and the wherefores, the details of phone calls and hastily convened meetings in Buswell’s, and whispered exchanges in the Dáil bar. Dom admired that about Charlie more than anything; his control, his pragmatism. He would immediately understand that, if it was a choice between watching Charlie and George knock lumps out of each other for the next week or slipping Jack in on the nod, then, for most of the parliamentary party, harmless, unambitious Jack was the most sensible option.
‘I’m sorry.’
This was not entirely a lie, because Dom genuinely did not want Jack to be Taoiseach. He didn’t want any of them. He wanted Lemass back. That’s what his own bewildered heart kept telling him. No one could compare. Not Jack, not Charlie, obviously not George. He could say that much with sincerity. ‘At least it won’t be George.’ But that was hardly likely to console Charlie just now.
‘Well, should I make a contest of it anyway? We still have a few days to win people over.’
Maybe the Lizard wasn’t such a pragmatist after all. Was it going to be necessary to reveal the whole embarrassing truth? That dull old Jack was not just another candidate throwing a hopeful hat in the ring. He was the Chosen One. A part of Dom would take great pleasure in telling Charlie that reluctant Jack had only allowed his name to go forward because Lemass was so determined that his own son-in-law should not be Taoiseach; he had more or less begged him to take the job. Surely Charlie would not want Dom to be specific about how embarrassingly bad the likely vote would be? His word-of-mouth canvass had revealed that, with Jack now in the contest, Charlie would be lucky to get twenty per cent. As Dom considered the most delicate way to frame his reply, Michael Liston fixed his eyes on Charlie and spoke for the first time.
‘I think the better option for you would be to concede graciously, having made sure that Jack gets the message, loud and clear, that you expect something in return for your support. Look, we all know Jack has no real future, he’s not going to be anything other than a stop-gap Taoiseach. Who in the party gives a fuck about him? Who’d fight his cause for him if it came down to it? Nobody. You know it, I know it. So, fine. With you as, say, Minister for Finance, or, at least Industry and Commerce –’
Charlie interrupted very quickly.
‘No. Finance, or nothing.’
‘Fair enough. So, with you in Finance, where would the real power be? And remember Charlie, all your plans, all those things you might get done, they won’t happen if you fight an election and lose. Jack could toss you some hole-in-the-wall ministry like Defence or… or –’
Dom wondered if he was about to say Education.
‘… or the Gaeltacht, for Jaysus’ sake! See my point? Don’t put yourself out of the game like that. Play it long.’
It was obvious that the Lizard liked what he was hearing. His next words confirmed that already he was slithering quickly through the undergrowth of his disappointment, his eyes now fixed on wide open fields beyond.
‘So you’re saying stand aside immediately and, Christ between us and all harm, openly support Jack.’
‘Yes. Definitely support him. Once he confirms exactly how grateful he’ll be after he’s elected.’
Dom knew he should be pleased at Michael’s intervention. After all, the objective of their visit had been to convince Charlie that his bid to be Taoiseach was doomed. Michael’s words seemed to have done the trick. Yet he felt uneasy. A new atmosphere had entered the room. It was as though something intangible but important had been wrested from him. When Michael spoke he had fixed his gaze solely on Charlie. Not once had he turned to Dom for support or confirmation. Not as much as a glance. It was as if he was not in the room. Neither did Charlie look to Dom for his opinion. Instead, as he sipped and considered his options, the lizard eyes focused exclusively on Michael Liston and, after a long period of silence, the tiny nod that indicated approval of the strategy was only offered in that direction. Dom might as well not have been there.
He felt foolishly and unaccountably jealous.
1967
Twenty: February 14th
Francis was pretty glum and he could tell that Ian Barry was too. It felt worse than the end of hols. They had just finished reading their very last Five Find-outers story, The Mystery of Banshee Towers. There were no more. Since becoming chums, Francis and Ian had read one every week. Ian’s dad had to go to Dublin a lot because of his job and he always brought him back a present of a new Five Find-outers book. Francis would borrow the same one from the library. It was wizard! Reading the same one at the same time meant they could talk about all the twists and turns of the latest during sos. They could play out the stories, making teachers and other pupils characters. Mr Quigley, who taught 4C, became PC Goon because, like the silly policeman, he was a bit of a fat sausage with frog-eyes. Whenever the chums saw him in the yard they would put him under surveillance, hoping to catch him doing something silly. One day they were delighted when they saw him picking his nose! Then he flicked the snot away, looking around before he did it to make sure no one was watching, but he never saw the two friends, who were well hidden! They were too clever for PC Goon! Another day they saw poor old Quigley bellowing at two boys in the yard who were fighting, but the boys just ran off because they knew that he was too lazy to run after them. The chums had great fun afterwards, pretending that Mr Quigley bellowed at the two boys like PC Goon.
‘Gah! Don’t you run away from me! Lawks, you dratted kids. Don’t you think you pests can get away with it! I’ll give you what-for!’
The chums nearly always picked Brother Hedgehog as the villain. Sometimes they had him writing poison-pen letters like Mrs Moon in The Mystery of the Spiteful Letters, or setting fire to things like Mr Hicks in The Mystery of the Burnt Cottage. Francis thought Hedgehog was horrid and a beastly toad and hoped they’d discover that he really did have a dark secret but, even though they kept him under surveillance every day and found his footprint and made a drawing of it, they couldn’t prove he’d committed a crime. He was too slippery. ‘Devious and clever, Pip,’ Francis, who was Fatty, said to Ian, who was Pip. ‘Devilish. He’s a wretch, Fatty,’ said Ian. All Hedgehog ever seemed to do was march the boys in 2E around the yard and bark out orders in Irish. Every other boy in the school kept out of his way. If Hedgehog put his evil eye on you, you were in trouble. Older pupils said even if a boy only did a tiny thing wrong, Hedgehog would give out at least four slaps of the leather and usually it was six.
Fatty was Francis’ favourite character. Even though he was conceited, he was clever, funny, good at disguises and usually solved the mystery in the end, although sometimes one of the others would say something which led him to the solution. Even though neither Francis nor Ian were plump, they both wanted to be Fatty, so they took turns. Whoever was not Fatty was usually Pip. Neither of them wanted to be any of the others, so they pretended that some other boys in their class were Bets, Larry and Daisy without telling them. For a laugh, sometimes they pretended Gerard Staunton was Buster the dog because he was so scruffy and always seemed to end up rolling around in the yard.
The chums played together every sos and when school finished each day they walked together slowly
to the entrance gate, chattering happily. A little bit away from the gate, they always stopped and Ian would say goodbye to Francis and bounce off. Francis would wait until he saw him walk away with his mother. The chums never saw each other outside of school, not even at the weekend. Francis’ dad brought him to football matches and he knew Ian was always going to Irish dancing competitions. One morning he told Francis that he had just become the Munster Champion, under-ten solo hornpipe. He seemed thrilled about it. Francis asked his mam if any of Marian’s dancing cups or medals were for being Munster Champion. His mam said no, that was a very hard thing to win, why was he asking? Francis said no reason, just he had heard that some boy in school had won it. His mam said he must be a brilliant dancer.
In the Five Find-outers books the children were always going to each other’s houses and drinking homemade lemonade. Francis wondered what it would be like if Ian Barry came to play in his house, but he knew it was a stupid idea. Imagine Ian’s mother walking up their street, holding Ian’s hand! Tommy Duggan and Bernard McMahon, who were in 2D and 2E and hardly ever even talked to Francis any more, would see him and be laughing behind his back. Francis was also afraid that if he brought Ian to his house Martin would be there and he’d start making beastly remarks that were supposed to be funny but weren’t. His mam would be even worse though. She’d be saying look how neat and tidy Ian is, why can’t you be like that? And she’d never give them a pitcher of homemade lemonade and iced buns.
When Francis first started reading the Five Find-outers books, he found some things strange and a bit upsetting. He couldn’t understand why grown-ups were calling children ‘Master’ or ‘Miss’. The local shopkeeper, Miss Jolly, always said things like: ‘What can I get you today, Master Frederick?’ or ‘Can I help you, Miss Daisy?’ In Curtin’s shop around the corner from Francis, Mrs Curtin just screamed at children all the time. ‘Wait your turn, you little scut!’ or ‘You, the boy of the Strongs, take your filthy hands off that counter!’ or ‘Don’t lay a finger on them penny sweets ’til after you paid for ’em.’ In the Five Find-outer books the only person who shouted at children was a stupid fat policeman who always got his comeuppance. In the end the adults always listened to the children and told them how clever they were. Francis also wondered how could Fatty afford to take everyone to the dairy and buy them cakes and ice-cream? It was like a different world. Even though they weren’t princes or princesses, the children all seemed to have maids and cooks and charwomen. Francis wasn’t even sure what a charwoman was, but he knew it was a servant of some kind. Why were there no normal people who didn’t have servants but who weren’t servants either? Was it different because it was England? Maybe that was why Ireland fought so hard to be independent?
Still, by the time he had finished reading the first book he was thoroughly enthralled by the mystery! Fatty was marvellous! Also, it was thrilling to send Ian messages written in invisible ink or find out if he could escape from a locked room using a sheet of newspaper and a piece of wire. Talking to each other the way the characters talked was great fun too.
‘Gracious, you’re a marvel, Ian!’
‘You’re a marvel too, Francis. You’re the limit!’
Soon, the world of the Five Find-outers became a completely normal, everyday thing and he forgot how queer it had seemed at first.
The chums had had a grand time but now it was over. They had read all fifteen adventures. Francis didn’t want to say it, but the one they had just finished was the worst. He wouldn’t want to read any more of them if they were going to be like this one. He wished they could all be as good as The Mystery of the Invisible Thief, which was his favourite. He had read that in only one day, starting it while he was walking home from the library and finishing it in bed that night under the covers with a flash-lamp. Francis hoped that Ian wouldn’t suggest that they start reading the Famous Five books, because he had already read a bit of Five Go to Smuggler’s Top and didn’t like it much. Could anything ever be as good as the Five Find-outers? The chums sat on the ground under Block F of the new school, staring sadly at their book covers.
‘I say, Ian old boy, things are going to be rather dull if there are no more mysteries to solve.’
‘Golly what a shame! Do you think that will happen?’
‘I jolly well hope not.’
‘It would be pretty exasperating.’
‘And infuriating!’
‘We’ll just have to buck up and find something else just as exciting.’
‘Topping idea!’
The friends fell silent. Thinking.
Twenty-one: June 18th–19th
On Friday as they were leaving school, Ian asked Francis: ‘Do you want to come to a party in my house on Sunday?’
Francis was dumbfounded, flabbergasted. Yes, of course he wanted to. Ian explained how to get there. Three o’clock, he said. Francis was so excited it wasn’t until he was nearly home that he remembered something.
Sunday was his birthday.
That didn’t have to stop him going to Ian’s party. What would happen on his birthday anyway? They might go for a drive in the lorry to Clare Glens and then visit his granny and he’d have to listen to her moaning and giving out. His mam would make a cake, but he could go to Ian’s party and still have the cake. He told her about the invitation. She asked him where did Ian live? He said Corbally. That was all right. As long as it wasn’t Southill or anywhere like that. She asked what was the party for? Francis realised he didn’t know. Ian just said it was a party. His mam said all right he could go, but he wasn’t to be telling anyone that it was his birthday in case people thought he was hinting for a present. Francis promised. His mam said did that mean he didn’t want a birthday cake? Francis said he did. His mam asked how was he going to eat it after being at a party. Francis said easy. His mam said was he never satisfied?
On Saturday evening she baked a sponge cake and coconut buns. She said the buns were for him to bring to the party, it would be rude to arrive with nothing. Francis didn’t want them, it was a stupid idea, Ian’s mother would only laugh at him. But he said nothing because he knew his mam would get annoyed.
His mam made him wear his Communion suit for the party so he would look proper and, as he left, she gave him the coconut buns in a brown paper bag. After he got off the bus at Shannonbanks and found the road where Ian lived, he stopped and looked inside the bag. Stupid buns. He was very close now to number 24, which was Ian’s house. Maybe he should gobble the buns to get rid of them but then he might be too full to eat all the nice things at the party. He looked around. He was passing number 18. The road was completely empty. He had an idea. No one would see him if he did it fast. He rammed the bag between the wall and the hedge of number 18 and scarpered.
Ian’s house was much bigger than his but it wasn’t as big as he thought it would be. It was attached to another house on one side. Francis expected it to be all on its own and much more fancy. He recognised Ian’s mother when she answered the door. Without her scarf and coat she looked even younger, much younger than his mam. And thinner. She was all dressed up and her hair was very long and shiny. She looked at Francis, then looked past him to the road.
‘Is your mummy or daddy with you?’
‘No. I came on the bus.’
‘Oh. Well. Come in. I’m Ian’s mummy.’
Francis followed her in. With her back to him she called, ‘Ian, love, your friend from school is here.’ When he appeared at the top of the stairs, his mother just walked off into a room. Francis thought maybe she didn’t like him. Was it because of the way he was dressed? His Communion suit was getting a bit too small for him. His mam had to let the trousers out. Looking at Ian, who was wearing brand new fancy pants that he had never seen before and a spotless white shirt, Francis felt a bit scruffy.
Ian said to come upstairs. Being an only child, he had a room all to himself and it was as wizard as Francis imagined it would be. He had his own bed in a corner and the wallpaper was bright blue wi
th little animals on it: foxes and rabbits and badgers. There was a shelf full of books and comics. He had all the toys and games that Francis saw advertised on telly – Lego, Scalextric, Subbuteo, the one with floodlighting. He had Matchbox cars, James Bond’s Aston Martin, the Batmobile. He had loads of other stuff too that Francis had no interest in, like Action Man in a pilot’s outfit. There were two other boys and three girls in the room already, drinking orange and red lemonade and playing The Man from U.N.C.L.E. board game. He didn’t know any of them. The boys weren’t from his school. Francis saw a little record player on a table behind one of the girls, who was looking through a pile of records. ‘I’m a Believer’ was playing. Ian said, ‘This is Daire and Eoin and Anna and Niamh and Sive. This is Francis from my class in school.’ Francis sat on the floor and watched them play. He didn’t know what to say to them. The boy called Eoin asked him did he watch The Man from U.N.C.L.E.? Francis said he did. Eoin asked him did he know how to play the game. Francis said he wasn’t sure. Eoin said it was easy and started explaining the rules. Francis pretended to listen but, really, he was watching Ian, who had gone over to the girl called Sive and was looking through the records with her. Francis didn’t know any girls except for his sister and his cousins. There were other girls on his road the same age as him but he never talked to them, except for Tommy Duggan’s sister, Val, who was a year older and was always coming over annoying them when they were playing. Ian and Sive seemed to be talking and laughing just the way Ian and Francis usually talked and laughed. They changed the record. Ian let Sive choose. She put on ‘Georgy Girl’, which Francis thought was a useless song. He wanted Ian to let him pick a record.
A man came upstairs with a large bottle of Shannon Orange and Shannon Red Lemonade in each hand. He said, ‘What’s going on here? It couldn’t be a party, that’s for sure, because there’s not enough noise. You’re supposed to be dancers and there’s no one dancing!’ The others laughed. They all seemed to know him. Francis guessed he must be Ian’s father, even though he looked much younger than his dad. Sure enough, when he asked if anyone wanted more to drink, Ian said, ‘Orange please, Daddy.’ Then he looked at Francis. ‘What’s this? Someone without a drink, without even a glass. We’ll have to sort that out.’ He gave Ian the bottles and went back downstairs. Ian poured orange and red lemonade into everyone’s glass. His father came trotting back, pretending to be breathless, with a glass for, ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Francis.’ ‘So what’ll it be Francis, orange or red lemonade?’ When Francis said red lemonade Mr Barry tossed his long hair back from his eyes and said, ‘Ah you’re going for the hard stuff. Brave man,’ and the others laughed again.
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