Unspoken

by Gerard Stembridge

  ‘So, you weren’t sure if you’d get any interesting material at this peaceful civil rights march?’

  Baz smiled and described what his lens had witnessed as best he could. In retelling the story he experienced a growing elation. Miriam said this footage should be broadcast somewhere straight away, it sounded remarkable. Baz said perhaps, but there were other cameramen there too. On the long drive back to Rossaveel they talked and talked, trying to make some sense of what had occurred today. Neither of them had ever been to Derry before. Baz had never even crossed the border. Miriam had once visited the Giant’s Causeway in 1960 when she was still in art college. She wondered was this eruption just part of the student unrest that was sweeping across the US and Europe or was it a purely Irish row, some kind of reawakening of old sectarian hatreds? Unfinished business. Baz admitted he had never had the slightest interest in the North until a couple of hours ago. Even the instinct that brought him here today had been casual, just another small element in the project he had been slowly developing since March. But now? Well. For the length of a roll of film today, a street in Derry had become his only reality. He had engaged with an intensity that he had never experienced in his whole career. He remembered how, when shooting Insurrection in studio a few years back, he had rehearsed and rehearsed every nuance of a complicated crane shot that snaked through the burning GPO to find Pearse standing alone facing the flames. Making art out of history. But today’s urgent, spontaneous, unrehearsed, jagged encounter felt much more like true art. Wasn’t this what Capa had done at Normandy? Baz told Miriam how, in the moment, he had experienced the thrill of being the one allowed to choose – admittedly without any time to think about it – which fragments of a historic moment to record and which to exclude. He was also conscious of uglier instincts it brought to the surface. Already he understood that his motive for tracking after that RUC man at the end was in the hope that the guy would assault someone else, and that his instinctive disappointment when the film ran out was because he hadn’t managed to complete his shot on a suitably operatic moment of violence.

  *

  Ritchie threw a punch and the farmer tumbled over. For a second Ann thought he really had hit him. It was so well done. Then farmers and cowmen rushed at each other and a big fight started. The audience laughed. Áine’s father, Cormac Kiely, who was playing Zeke, separated them and started singing about how the farmer and the cowman should be friends. Fonsie always liked Cormac Kiely in these shows. He mightn’t be the world’s best baritone, but he had great stage presence and really knew how to perform a song. He was always a big favourite with the audience. Ann kept watching Ritchie to see if he was doing all his actions right. She thought he looked lovely in his check shirt and cowboy hat with the yellow handkerchief around his neck. And his dancing was much better than she’d expected. He was as good as any of them. Of course, the chorus had been rehearsing every night for weeks. The Cecilians had a very high standard. It took her ages to spot Áine, on account of her wig. If it hadn’t been for that big smile she wouldn’t have recognised her at all. Ann thought it was lovely that Ritchie and her had been put together for the barndance. They both looked like they were having a great time.

  When another fight broke out, with the women joining in this time, Louise Kiely, who was playing Aunt Eller, came forward and fired a gun in the air. It was so loud even the audience got a fright. The music stopped and so did the fighting. All the farmers and cowmen looked really scared as Aunt Eller walked up to Zeke and pointed her gun at him. When she told him to sing, and he started off in a frightened, quavery voice, Ann heard Francis laugh out loud. Then the orchestra joined in, really fast this time, and everyone started singing and dancing and all the territory folk were pals again. Ann thought it was just lovely. She had completely forgotten the bad mood she had been in since her row with Gussie. She glanced over at Fonsie, who was tapping his knee along with the music. He looked and whispered, ‘The orchestra is very good, isn’t it?’ She smiled back and nodded. Everyone was very good. It was all beautiful and bright, the music, the singing, the acting, the dancing, the colour and light. She was so happy that Ritchie was part of this and meeting lots of nice people. She looked over at Marian and Francis and could see that both of them were enjoying the show too. Francis, especially, was glued to it. Marian really was getting more confident about herself since she got such good results in her Inter Cert. Maybe she might think of joining the musical society? She wasn’t much for singing but she’d be great backstage. The other fellah, of course, would love to be up there showing off.

  When the show finished with a ‘Yeow!’ from everyone onstage, the packed audience in the Crescent Hall clapped and cheered and whistled. Because it was the last night they did a little encore of ‘The Farmer and the Cowman’ and the audience clapped along and sang. Ann noticed that Francis was singing all the words. How in God’s name was he able to do that after only hearing it once? She nudged Fonsie, ‘Do you hear this?’ He listened for a couple of seconds and said in his dry way, ‘Well, he might be a play-actor but we can forget about him being a singer.’

  There was a party afterwards. Ann and Fonsie were invited. Áine had told them there was no problem with Marian and Francis going along, but Fonsie said that as it was already eleven o’clock he’d drop Francis home to bed and come back. Ann asked did he really think there was any hope of getting that child to go home without an argument and pussing? Anyway look, she pointed out, Áine’s youngest sister – what was her name? – she was only around nine, too, and she was still here. Fonsie gave up.

  As the performers came back out in their party clothes and the room filled up, Francis enjoyed wandering around, looking, listening and trying to recognise people from the show. Everyone was happy and excited and there was lots of squealing and squawking and shrieking. He spotted the man who played Curly. He looked older in real life. It was easy to recognise the woman who played Ado Annie because of her nose. Francis started singing her song, ‘I’m Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No’, to himself. It was his second favourite song in the show after ‘The Farmer and the Cowman’. He could remember all the words of the first part and most of the second part. He saw Mr and Mrs Kiely talking to his mam and dad. Mam had her biggest smile on. Francis was glad. She’d been in such a rotten temper all day after that row with Gussie, he’d been afraid they wouldn’t go to the show at all, but now she seemed really happy. Music and singing always made her feel better.

  Francis looked hungrily at the long table full of sandwiches and buns. He wished somebody would start eating so he could, too. Everyone was so busy drinking they weren’t bothered about the food. He saw a man giving Marian a glass of something. She looked around and then shook her head but he smiled and tried to put it in her hand. She said no again but she was smiling, too. Francis recognised him now as the fellow who played Will Parker.

  There was a strange-looking man at the far end of the table. He stood dead straight with one hand resting on his hip and a drink in the other hand, which he held close to his mouth as he looked around. He had a particular look on his face. Francis tried to think of a good word to describe it. A glare? No. A grimace? No. A scowl? Sort of. Then he remembered a word from the Just William books. It described the look on Violet Elizabeth’s face: a pout. There was something else strange about the man. Francis studied him, trying to figure out the mystery. Then he realised. The man with the pout was wearing make-up. There were dark lines and some blue around his eyes. His lips looked pink and shiny. He must have forgotten to take it off. Francis tried to remember him from the show. Was he in the chorus? He was about the same age as Ritchie and he definitely hadn’t played Curly or Will or Judd or… Just then, because of the way the man with the pout stretched his neck as he looked around, Francis remembered him. He was the Dream Curly in the ballet part of the show, the part that Francis thought had gone on too long and didn’t seem to fit with the rest. And now the dancer himself didn’t seem to fit in at the party either. Francis
couldn’t stop staring at him, though he wasn’t sure why. As if there was a mystery to solve. Some secret. Ritchie and Áine appeared in front of him, holding hands.

  ‘Hey, Fran, did you like the show?’ Francis said it was brilliant.

  ‘Oooh, I’m delighted you enjoyed yourself!’ said Áine and when Francis told her he thought Mrs Kiely was very funny, Áine shrieked with laughter. ‘Oooh, God now! Don’t say that to my father. He thinks he’s the funny one in the family. Oh, Ritchie, look! Peter’s chatting up your Marian. You never know! Franny, don’t move now for a sec. There’s someone I want you to meet.’ Áine ran off. Francis started asking Ritchie questions about the show. How often did they have to practice the dances? Who told them when to go onstage? Why did they all have orange faces? He had heaps more questions but Áine came back, dragging a little girl with her. She was nearly the same height as Francis with coloured ribbons in her hair.

  ‘Now Gráinne honey, this is Francis. He’s Ritchie’s little brother, remember I told you about him? And Francis, this is my baby sister Gráinne.’

  Francis didn’t know what he was supposed to say and the girl looked on the ground and didn’t say anything either. Áine thought this was very funny. ‘Ah, they’re shy. Well, maybe you won’t be so shy one of these days. Now, come on and we’ll get you something nice.’ She was already holding her sister’s hand and now she grabbed Francis. He didn’t like this but, as she was pulling them to the food table, he went along with it. Áine kept laughing and talking as she filled up plates for them. Then she told Ritchie to get serviettes and brought them over to two empty chairs. ‘Sit down there and have a nice chat, the pair of you.’ Ritchie gave them serviettes and Áine put the plates on their laps. ‘Ah, don’t they look sweet! Enjoy yourselves now.’

  She put her arm around Ritchie’s waist and they tripped off. Francis started eating one of his sandwiches. He was afraid even to look at Áine’s sister because he couldn’t think of anything to say to her. Now Áine was talking to his mam and dad, and her mother and father, pointing over at them. They were all smiling. Francis tried to think of things to say, but everything he thought of was stupid. Anyway, he didn’t really want to talk to Áine’s sister. He wanted to sit on his own looking at the grown-ups drinking and laughing. Where was the man with the pout? Francis looked all around, but there was no sign of him. If he’d left the party with his makeup still on, people in the street would be laughing at him. Francis hoped someone warned him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the girl’s small hand pick up a bun. At least she was eating. If she talked to him he’d talk back. But she didn’t. So the two nine-year-olds sat side by side, eating. Silent.

  1969

  Twenty-nine: January 10th

  ‘Most of you made a great effort. Some of you just didn’t bother and that gets on my wick. I get very annoyed when I see fellahs who are well capable of doing something not even trying. But most of you tried very hard, I have to say. I know it wasn’t an easy composition to do.’

  The boys of 4A murmured in agreement with that. Mr Wade smiled.

  ‘But that’s why you’re in the “A” class. It’s not supposed to be easy. Think of it this way: if I gave you a composition called “A report on last week’s episode of… say… Daniel Boone” you’d have written pages and pages. This composition isn’t really any different.’

  Mr Wade turned and looked at the blackboard. On it was written ‘A report from Northern Ireland’.

  ‘Imagine there was a big row on your street and all your neighbours were fighting and setting fire to things and the police had to be called in –’

  4A laughed.

  ‘I know, it’s funny to think of it, but if it happened it wouldn’t be so funny. So. Imagine you arrive into class the next day and I ask you to give me a report on the big row that happened on your street the night before. You’d all be full of it, every single one of you would be able to stand up and tell me all about it. Isn’t that right?’

  Most of 4A mumbled ‘Yes sir’ reluctantly. Mr Wade picked up a copybook and opened it as he spoke. ‘Now, like I said, a lot of you made a good fist of it. But there was one composition that, to my mind, really stood out. It was so good I’m going to ask the boy who wrote it to read it out for the class.’

  This was something new. Mr Wade never asked boys to read out ecker. Francis looked at the copybook in Mr Wade’s hand. He wished it was him. More than anything he wanted it to be him, even though he knew it would be John Hennessy, who always came first in exams, or maybe Anthony Doyle, who was the fastest at working out sums and brilliant at spelling, or even his best pal Ian, who always came in the top four. Francis had never been higher than fourteenth. He looked around, feeling really jealous.

  ‘Francis Strong, tar anseo.’

  It wasn’t until he felt Tommy Quinn, who sat next to him, pushing him in the back and he saw Ian grinning over at him and nodding to him to stand up and he looked again at Mr Wade smiling at him, holding out the copybook, that Francis was sure his name really had been called. He got up and walked to Mr Wade’s desk.

  ‘Anois! Bígí ciúin a bhuachaillí! Francis is going to read out his report from Northern Ireland.’

  Francis opened the copybook and looked down at the handwriting that Mr Wade was always telling him was grubby and careless and had to improve. The class was silent. Now he didn’t dare look up because he knew that some of them would be making faces and messing and trying to put him off. He was nearly afraid to open his mouth in case his heart would jump out of it. This was the best thing that ever happened to him in his whole life. When he read out the name of the composition, he could barely hear his own voice. He tried to make it sound stronger.

  ‘We left Belfast on Wednesday evening. I was very excited. There were thousands of us. We were all marching to Derry for Civil Rights…’

  When Mr Wade first started to teach 4A about Northern Ireland, he told them that this was something they wouldn’t find out about in their schoolbooks. They would have to watch the news on telly or read the papers that their fathers brought home. Francis’ dad never bought a paper except on Sunday, so he started watching the news at six o’clock and nine o’clock every night. The very first thing he saw about Northern Ireland gave him a big shock. It was a march in Derry. People wanted Civil Rights but the police started battering them with batons for no reason. The people marching had no weapons. One poor man got bashed on the ear. It reminded Francis of the time Bernard McMahon hit him with a hurley. That was ages ago, but he hadn’t forgotten the awful pain. Why did the police do that? Didn’t they want people to have Civil Rights? Mr Wade said that everyone should have Civil Rights, but, in Northern Ireland, Catholics didn’t. Francis wondered was that why the Protestants he saw on the telly all had fancy names, like Major Bunting, Captain O’Neill and Reverend Ian Paisley but the Catholic names were normal like John and Gerry and Bernadette.

  Every night there was something on the news about Northern Ireland: crowds on the street and people making speeches and police waving batons and cars and shops being set on fire. Francis heard so many new words and phrases he started writing them all down in his copybook so he wouldn’t forget them.

  Loyalists, Nationalists, Paisleyites, Republicans, Extremists, Revolutionary Socialists, Anarchists, orgy of violence, baton charge, water cannon, maintenance of peace, harassment, indiscriminate.

  It was exciting but very confusing.

  ‘On the first night the Extremists stopped us marching through Antrim Town. My friends and me didn’t want to start a fight. The RUC brought us to a hostel where we could sleep without harassment. My friend said to me, ‘Don’t worry, when we get to Derry we will get our Civil Rights…’

  Then the Christmas holidays came and Francis completely forgot about Northern Ireland. He loved Christmas and this year there were three things that made it brilliant. Going into town to see the lights and visit Santa, getting presents of more Hardy Boys books, and the ceremony of a thousand candles a
t the Redemptorists on Christmas Day. The lights on O’Connell Street and William Street were the best ever. His dad said the Corporation got them from Blackpool in England. Francis visited Santa three times. His mam brought him to Santa at Todds, his Godmother Mary brought him to Santa at Cannocks and his brother Gussie gave him the money to go to Santa at Roches Stores but he had to queue up himself.

  The first time Francis ever saw the ceremony of a thousand candles he was only five and, since then, he looked forward to it every year. It was always on at six o’clock on Christmas night. The Redemptorist church was huge; it was more like a cathedral. There were candles everywhere on the altar, high up and low down, in front and to the side. Once the church was full, the choir began ‘O Holy Night’ and then all the Redemptorists came out with long flaming sticks and started lighting up each candle. It took at least ten minutes just to get them all lit. Then the electric lights in the church were turned off so that it was dark everywhere apart from the altar, which looked like it was on fire. One of the Redemptorists began Benediction and everyone replied:

  ‘Blessed be God

  Blessed be his Holy name

  Blessed be Jesus Christ true God and true Man

  Blessed be the name of Jesus

  Blessed be his most Sacred Heart

  Blessed be his most precious blood.’

  As he prayed, Francis’ eyes were glued to the flaming altar. The only words he could think of to describe his feeling, were what his mam said every year after the ceremony: ‘Well, wasn’t that just beautiful, now. That was the real Christmas.’ He couldn’t help thinking about all the money he had stolen from the window sill. After the first time, he’d kept taking sixpence every week so he could buy Hardy Boys books even faster. But his mam and dad had bought him two more for Christmas, The Secret of Skull Mountain and The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge. His Aunt Marg had bought him The Secret Warning and Aunt Mona had bought him The Crisscross Shadow. It was brilliant that they all got him ones he hadn’t read yet. Francis didn’t have to be as good a sleuth as the Hardy Boys to deduce that his mam and dad must have organised it. That made him feel even more guilty, and he promised God he wouldn’t steal any more money for Hardy Boys books ever again. He knew he should do more than that to make up for it, but he didn’t know what.