All Growed Up

by Tony Macaulay

  I answered questions about my university course in as little detail as possible, just in case all journalism courses in Ireland hated Media Studies degree graduates. It was all going swimmingly until one of the interviewers began to examine my application form more closely. It was clear that something had caught his eye. I wondered if it was my experience of producing a documentary on glue sniffing in Belfast or my voluntary work across the peace line during the summer holidays. After a few seconds of intense silence he looked up from my application form and said, ‘So, why exactly do you people support Paisley?’

  I was completely taken aback, as I had no recollection of mentioning Rev. Ian Paisley anywhere on my application form. I didn’t support Paisley anyway, because he seemed to hate Catholics far too much and some people took that as an excuse to kill them. The interviewer was staring at me, waiting for a reply.

  He doesn’t like me, I thought.

  ‘Well,’ I replied slowly. ‘I suppose people who support Paisley …’ and I tried to remember what my granny would have said because she had supported Paisley until her dying day. ‘Well, it’s very important to them to be British and … they take the Bible very literally and only believe in a certain kind of Christianity and that you shouldn’t play on the swings on Sunday and all …’

  ‘I just don’t get you people,’ he interrupted. ‘Paisleyites are the biggest fuckin’ obstacle to peace in the North today.’

  He thinks I’m a Paisleyite! I thought.

  ‘Well, actually, personally speaking, I’m not …’

  ‘What exactly do Paisleyites want?’ he interrupted again.

  This was not what I had expected in this interview. There was nothing in my library book about how to defend yourself for being something you weren’t, and I was so flustered by this turn of events that I didn’t even remember to picture the interviewers naked. The other interviewer returned to the scripted questions, but it was clear that his colleague had no further interest in me. He set down his pen as firmly as the interviewer in Belfast had. As I stumbled my way through various questions about what I would do as a reporter on this story or in that circumstance, I noticed that the other interviewer was rolling his eyes. What was it that made interviewers for journalism courses want to roll their eyes at me? I rarely rolled me eyes at anybody – apart from Clive Ross and Irene Maxwell. The interview came to a quick and stilted end and I barely got a handshake as I left the room.

  The rejection letter arrived a few weeks later and this time I was angry. I was certain it wasn’t my fault this time – the interviewers hadn’t even given me a fair chance. I had driven the whole way down the Dublin Road – in spite of being warned never to do so by Ian Paisley – and then when I got there they didn’t want me because of Paisley! When I had got my first job as a paperboy with Oul Mac and when Leslie McGregor asked me to be his breadboy on the Ormo Mini Shop I was chosen based on my experience and skills alone. How would I ever get a job as a journalist if people kept assuming I was something I wasn’t? What if no one ever gave me a chance? This was what John Hume called injustice.

  It seemed that the BBC in Belfast was my last chance. I was sure the BBC would treat me fairly – after all, they produced Blue Peter and Songs of Praise, so I knew their moral standards were very high. I had almost given up when one day, to my great surprise, a white envelope with the BBC logo arrived. At first I thought my wee brother had applied for a Blue Peter badge, but when I noticed the Belfast postmark my heart leapt. Sure enough, inside there was a very pleasant letter inviting me to do a screen test.

  ‘The BBC are goin’ to try me out!’ I shouted down the phone to Lesley.

  ‘Oh. My. Nerves!’ she shouted back.

  The screen test took place in Broadcasting House in Belfast city centre round the corner from the Ulster Hall. When I entered the imposing building I had to go to the security desk and show my letter before they would allow me inside, presumably because they didn’t want anyone hijacking the news. I waited for ten minutes until a nice lady in good clothes and make-up came over and welcomed me with lots of lovely ‘-ings’. I tried to respond with as many carefully pronounced ‘-ings’ as possible – after all, if I were to become a newsreader I would have to soften my Belfast accent and try to sound more like I came from Cultra. However in all the excitement of walking past the real live Rose Neill in the foyer I forgot myself when the nice lady asked me if I had taken lunch.

  ‘No, I’m starvin’, so I am,’ I replied.

  She took me up in a lift to a proper recording studio like the one in the Band Aid video, only there was no sign of Simon Le Bon, Boy George or Bono. It was just me, a camera and a microphone in a little room with padded walls. It was so silent I could hear my heart beating. I was nervous. This was my last chance. Everyone else had rejected me. I took deep breaths, said a wee prayer and decided that I would do my very best. I would draw on my acting skills to enunciate my words and project my voice and look dead serious like the newsreaders between the bongs on News at Ten. The nice lady appeared behind a window to an adjoining room and sat next to a man wearing a sweater and headphones. Her voice crackled through a small speaker beside me.

  ‘Okay, Tony. Are you ready, dawling?’

  ‘Yes, please, thank you,’ I replied.

  ‘In front of you is a list of place names in Naawthan Ahland. I want you to read down the list as clearly as possible. Okay, dawling?’

  This seemed very easy. I read down the list: Annalong, Ahoghill, Annahilt, Bangor, Ballycastle, Boho … I said the place names as if I was on the Eurovision Song Contest calling on all the different capital cities to cast their votes. When I got to the Ms there were one or two unfamiliar place names such as ‘Maghaberry’, but I tried to appear confident as I finished reading the list. When I looked up at the end, I noticed the nice lady and the man with the headphones were laughing. I couldn’t hear what they were laughing at through the glass, but I thought the BBC must be a nice place to work if people were telling jokes and laughing all the time.

  Once the nice lady had composed herself, she pressed a button on the other side of the glass and said, ‘Now, Tony, dawling. Next you are going to be reading from the autocue in front of you.’

  ‘Okay, thanks!’ I replied politely, feeling the need to give her a thumbs up through the window even though she could hear every word I said through the microphone.

  ‘Just follow the words and look at the camera.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  ‘Are you ready, dawling?’

  ‘Yes, please, thank you.’

  I read the autocue, which scrolled down with a news report about a traffic accident, trying my best to sound authoritative but relaxed like John Craven on Newsround.

  When I finished reading the report I noticed there was some smiling and nodding on the other side of the glass and I hoped this was an indication that they would at least want me to read the news when Rose Neill went on her holidays for the Twelfth fortnight. The nice lady told me I had done very well and said that someone would be in touch in due course. I was relieved that there hadn’t been an interview this time.

  For weeks I monitored the post for any sign of a white envelope with the BBC logo on the front. I understood now how Peter Davison must have felt when he had applied to be the new Doctor Who. Finally, one Saturday morning, the letter arrived at my house in Belfast shortly after the Ormo Mini Shop had passed. When it landed on the fraying hall carpet I knew this small paper packet would determine my future. I opened the envelope and read the letter.

  ‘While we have no openings for you at present, we think you have some on-screen potential.’

  I had failed yet again, but at least this time I had been given a fair chance, and the BBC thought I had some potential. I drove to Bellaghy that evening and showed Lesley the letter, and she agreed that I did have potential in many ways.

  ‘Look, Mummy, the BBC says Tony has some potential,’ she said, showing her mother the impressive letter on BBC headed pa
per.

  Mummy was very impressed, and while preparing a mammoth spread of fancy pastries and triangular sandwiches she asked me about the screen test. As I attempted to decline offers of yet another chocolate coconut bun and more ice cream, I told her all about reading from the autocue and saying the names of all the places in Northern Ireland.

  ‘Och, Mummy knows everywhere in Northern Ireland. You’ve no idea!’ said Lesley. ‘She makes up wee quizzes and all for the GB.’

  ‘Well there were a few places I wasn’t sure about,’ I confessed.

  ‘Like what?’ said Mummy offering me a plate of perfectly symmetrical traybakes.

  I wrote down ‘Maghaberry’.

  ‘How do you say that then?’ I asked.

  ‘Ma-gab-ree’ she said.

  My heart sank. ‘I said Maka-Berry!’

  ‘Oh, Lessley!’ Mummy said, and put her hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle.

  ‘Well, at least I got Bangor, Ballycastle and Boho right!’ I protested.

  ‘You mean Bow?’ said Mummy.

  My heart sank even further. ‘I said Boo-hoo!’

  Mummy set down her teapot and put both hands over her mouth.

  ‘Oh, Lessley!’ she shrieked.

  ‘You’ve no idea!’ Lesley replied.

  Lesley and Mummy collapsed into fits of laughter. Now I understood the reason for all the laughter behind the glass at the BBC. I was a failure with no future in the media, and I was seriously scundered, so I was.

  20

  IT MUST BE LOVE

  Where is she? I wondered.

  I was standing at the model in my ‘Feed the World’ T-shirt and faded jeans, biting my nails and waiting for Lesley to accompany me to the canteen for a feed of sausage and chips and beans. Lesley had recently introduced me to new, exotic foods in Bellaghy, such as lasagne and another pasta dish with chicken and real garlic. This was completely new to my palate as my only experience of garlic prior to this was in Dracula movies on BBC2 on a Friday night. Italian cuisine was delicious, but I preferred to have the more traditional something-and-chips at lunchtime. I was listening to Agnetha’s solo album on my Sony Walkman, but the batteries were low so she was starting to sound more like Björn. To complement my ‘Feed the World’ T-shirt I had two days worth of stubble on my chin. I was going for the Bob Geldof look because he was interested in saving the world too. My ‘Feed the World’ T-shirt had recently been at the centre of an unfortunate incident with my housemates, however, as, in a protest against the persistent allegation that I never washed the dishes, Aaron, Colm and Peter decided to teach me a lesson. I arrived home late one night after a particularly demanding CU committee meeting on whether or not healing should be allowed during the main weekly meeting. As I walked up the weed-strewn pathway to our student house, I saw that my ‘Feed the World’ T-shirt had been stuck to my bedroom window for the entire world to see. I knew immediately that my housemates had been up to some high japes, and when I entered the house and opened the door to my room I found several weeks of dirty dishes piled on my bed and a note on the back of my T-shirt which read ‘But do the dishes first!’ I was outraged at the suggestion that I was not pulling my weight in the kitchen. I had washed the dishes at least three times that semester, and I made a point of mopping the kitchen floor every few months. In spite of this unjust sullying of my T-shirt I continued to wear it with pride to tell the world that, not only did I want to feed it, I also supported Bob Geldof’s endeavour to feed everyone in Africa from the proceeds of ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’, even though Bob himself was a bit of a slabber and the Boomtown Rats had lost it.

  It was not like Lesley to be late. I was the one who arrived late for our dates, usually as a result of something important, like an incident in the Middle East, or an argument over Nietzsche in the Students’ Union, or an emergency prayer meeting in the Christian Union, or a brilliant cliffhanger at the end of Doctor Who. Even when Lesley had been in the library all day trying to complete her dissertation on stress in the RUC she was always on time, so this was very unusual.

  ‘Stood up, Tone?’ Byron Drake approached me with a broad smile and a folded Guardian.

  ‘Just waiting for my girlfriend. This happens sometimes when you actually have a real live girlfriend. Has yours got a puncture?’ I asked.

  After three years at university I had mastered the art of the clever sarcastic put-down and I knew exactly how to stand up for myself. I was just as confident as Byron now and he knew it!

  ‘Very droll, virgin, very droll,’ Byron replied.

  ‘I’ve just been reading that wee book you like.’ I said.

  Byron looked atypically impressed. ‘The Catcher in the Rye? Wow! You’re getting there, Tone, you’re getting there.’

  ‘It’s almost Nietzschean,’ I replied nonchalantly as if I now understood what this phrase meant.

  Byron patted me on the back, returned his attention to the Morrissey playing on his headphones and walked on with a flick of his latest Flock of Seagulls fringe.

  ‘Here, Tony, can ye lend me your lecture notes from this mornin’?’ asked a very hung-over Marty Mullen whose breath had just crept up behind me.

  ‘Aye, dead on,’ I replied.

  ‘Dead on,’ said Marty.

  At this point in the conversation I noticed that Marty was wearing a brand new leather jacket, and I could tell by the smell that it wasn’t a cheap plastic imitation like the one I had purchased from the bargain bucket in John Frazer’s. The first time I sported my impressive but slightly-too-shiny faux leather jacket my big brother accused me of looking like ‘that big fruit Freddie’ from Queen. I never wore the jacket again and donated it to Shankill Methodist in a black bin bag, although I wasn’t sure how many Freddie Mercury fans attended the annual church jumble sale.

  ‘Can I have them back tomorrow?’ I asked Marty.

  ‘Aye, nay bother. Are ye goin’ for a samich?’

  ‘No, I’m meetin’ Lesley.’

  ‘Aye, nay bother,’ Marty said, about to walk on.

  ‘Like your jacket,’ I admitted, even though I was feeling highly envious. How could he afford a leather jacket when he was always boasting about how many pints of Jack Daniels he had consumed the night before? I knew I should control my jealousy but I couldn’t help myself. When would I ever be able to afford a proper leather jacket made of dead cows’ skin and not PVC?

  ‘I didn’t think you were allowed them west of the Bann,’ I added with pure student sarcasm.

  ‘Sure you’re only allowed te wear sashes and bowler hats where you come from,’ he replied smartly.

  I was determined not to allow this to descend into a sectarian spat because this would mean Marty would never accept an invitation to come to the CU and get saved, so I resisted my sinful urge to reply with a comment about balaclavas in Londonderry.

  ‘Aye right,’ I said.

  ‘Aye right,’ said Marty, deliberately pulling up the collar of his leather jacket as if he was a white Michael Jackson from Derry.

  ‘See ya,’ I said.

  ‘See ya,’ said Marty.

  It was remarkable how Marty and I had become such dear friends in just a few short years.

  By this stage Lesley was fifteen minutes late, and this was fifteen minutes later than she had ever been – even during the January sales. I spotted Aaron Ward and two of Lesley’s favourite Heathers from Portadown crossing the entrance hall and I dashed over to see if they had any information on my girlfriend’s whereabouts. Lesley shared a big detached house in Portstewart (owned by a wealthy man who Mummy and Daddy knew) with these two Heathers and they were bound to know why she was so late.

  ‘What are you like, wee lad?’ said Aaron, looking me up and down. He disapproved of my heavily-gelled New Romantic hair, designer stubble and campaigning T-shirt just as much as I was bored by his rugby shirts and Pringle sweaters. He gave me a dead arm to indicate that he meant no harm.

  ‘Have you seen Lesley?’ I enquired.

>   ‘Ach, she’s not well, so she’s not,’ chorused the two Heathers.

  ‘Where is she?’ I asked urgently, concerned that she had been rushed to hospital with another asthma attack.

  ‘She’s in bed at the house,’ said the two Heathers.

  Within seconds I was on my way to the bus stop for Portstewart. I was missing my lunch and a lecture on the terminal decline of cinema but I didn’t care. My girlfriend needed me and she needed me now! The minute I arrived at the bus stop I began sticking my thumb out at passing motorists. Fortunately, I soon got a lift with a kind woman driving a Mini Metro with a picture of Charles and Diana on the dashboard and a strawberry-smelling cardboard tree hanging from the rearview mirror. Within ten minutes I had thanked her kindly, jumped out of the car and ran around the corner to Lesley’s student digs, a large house with central heating and a sea view which was three times the size of my family home (although strangely lacking an avocado bidet).

  I rang the doorbell.

  No answer.

  Then I rapped the brass knocker.

  No answer.

  What if Lesley was unconscious? I would have to knock the door down like Tubbs in Miami Vice breaking into a drug den. Then I remembered that in movies in such circumstances, the man always threw pebbles at his lover’s window. I grabbed a couple of pebbles from the soil around the hydrangea bushes in the front garden and chucked them at Lesley’s bedroom window. Unfortunately, I missed by several miles and had to search for more pebbles so I could have another go. A grumpy looking woman passed by and stared at me disapprovingly.

  ‘Humph. Typical Belfast,’ she said and walked on.

  After three or four further stone-throwing attempts I noticed the curtains moving. A very pale-looking Lesley popped her head out, then motioned to indicate that I should go around to the back of the house. This was awful! What if I had forced my girlfriend to get out of bed at a critical point in her disease, causing her to relapse? What if I had to call an ambulance and she ended up in the Royal and the doctors had no time to see her because of a bomb or a shooting or something? What if she died?