Call Me the Breeze: A Novel

by Patrick McCabe

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘just passing through. I’m a salesman, actually. Just over from London.’

  ‘Oh, London,’ said Hoss. ‘Many’s the time I was in it. Do you mind if I join you? A Smithwick’s and a Guinness there, Austie, if you please!’

  Well, what a time he had with Hoss. Or Hoss Watson, which he informed the salesman was his full name. The man was a scream with these stories of his, an absolute fucking scream! ‘But wait till I tell you!’ he’d say, as he grabbed your elbow. ‘Then the Borstal Boy says …’ He was full of these stories about Brendan Behan, about whom all the salesman could genuinely say he knew was that he was an Irish author of some sort. But apart from that, knew nothing.

  ‘Oh, by cripes, he was a good one!’ went on Hoss. “‘What sight do you most want to see in Spain while you’re here?” says the customs officer. “What sight do you most want to see while you’re here?” And what does the Laughing Boy say? “Franco’s fucking funeral!”’ The whole bar exploded when he said that. As it did when he told the one about this Behan fellow painting a pub in Paris. “‘This is the best fucking pub in Paris!” He painted that above the door! Can you fucking believe it, can you, Campbell?’

  Campbell Morris had to admit that he couldn’t. As he had to admit that for as far back as he could remember he hadn’t enjoyed a night like this …

  ‘And the night’s young yet, eh, boys?’ laughed Hoss as yet another tray arrived laden down with drinks all purchased for the visitor. They wouldn’t let him put his hand in his pocket. The only thing was, Campbell had to keep reminding himself, he’d have to, at some point, book into a hotel. And he was on the verge of doing that when out of nowhere the singing started. Someone produced a guitar — he said his name was Bennett — and launched into a country-and-western tune. Well, this was music to Campbell Morris’s ears all right, for there was no one he liked more than Hank Williams. So, without being asked, he stumbled up to the podium and started into ‘Jambalaya’, and within seconds the whole place had erupted.

  ‘Good man, Campbell!’ bawled Hoss as Bennett, the spit of Willie Nelson with his beard and collarless shirt, winked over and gave him the thumbs up.

  Whenever the bellicose Republican songs started up after that, Hoss squeezed his arm and told him not to worry, it was only the boys letting off steam. Which Hoss needn’t have worried about, for Campbell was oblivious to any intended slight. Even when the singer — a different chap now — punched the air with a vengeance, nearly strangling the microphone as he snarled: ‘God’s curse on you, England, you cruel-hearted monster!’ The ironic thing is that if Campbell had responded to it, for clearly the sentiments were being addressed towards him, the singer would, conceivably, have been satisfactorily mollified if a craven acknowledgement of his country’s grave misdeeds had been forthcoming from Campbell in the form of crushed and compliant body language. The positions reversed, as it were, with Campbell playing the part of the browbeaten, craven subject. But such a response never materialised. Indeed, if anything, the opposite was in evidence, with Campbell, completely inebriated, following one Hank Williams song with another, slapping the counter and calling for drinks, now clearly having the time of his life.

  It was at this juncture, or close to it, that the murmurings began.

  What exactly it was that Campbell had been asked, he wasn’t even sure himself. He was far too busy singing Hank Williams. Then someone asked him what he thought of the Queen, and he responded by saying she was a great old girl. Strictly speaking, at the back of their minds, everyone present knew that the whispered allegation of ‘spy’ was not just a little absurd. But then, as someone else said: ‘What about the Littlejohn brothers that were convicted a couple of years back of working for MI5? No one at the start would have believed it of them. And look what they got up to.’

  Then someone mentioned the case of the soldier in Cavan who had been working in the meat factory for over a year before his links with British intelligence were discovered.

  ‘Remember,’ someone said, ‘it’s easy to operate around the border and there’s plenty of information to be got. And what better cover than a salesman?’ If Campbell had been a trifle more conciliatory and perhaps demonstrated a little more comprehension of the situation in Northern Ireland, especially when asked about Frank Stagg the hunger striker (‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, why didn’t he just take his food!’ he replied), things might have panned out differently. No one could say for certain who came up with the idea of the reservoir. ‘That way we’ll know for certain,’ they said. ‘We’ll ask him a couple of questions. A few fucking questions won’t do any harm! That way we’ll know for sure!’ You could tell, the drunker they became, that some people had started to think of themselves as desperados now, although in the normal run of things they’d have been terrified to think they’d be associated with subversives and were seeing themselves now as some kind of defenders of a dead striker’s honour.

  Initially, Hoss was against the idea. But then, he thought, it couldn’t do any harm. Bennett, also, thought the whole thing ‘fucking crazy’.

  ‘No fucking way!’ he snapped. ‘The man’s just drunk!’

  But they kept on at him — ‘We’re all in this together’ — so in the end he relented. It was him drove the van, in fact. ‘Just do the driving,’ Hoss had said, ‘and make sure nobody does anything stupid. Just throw a scare into the English fucker. Do that much at least, so he’ll keep his lippy mouth shut in future. I’m not going. It’s too risky. The cops are watching me day and night. I’m relying on you now, Bennett. To keep an eye on things in case they get out of hand.’

  Which, as we know, they did.

  (The Animal Pit — End of Salesman Scene)

  I stood by the water with my megaphone, stroking my chin as the kids took their positions directly under the sycamore. Then: Action!

  ‘That’s it!’ I bawled through the megaphone. ‘Now get stuck in — and give it everything, guys!’

  ‘You fucking cunt!’ they kept shouting at the salesman. ‘You needn’t think you’ll fool us, you fucking spy!’

  You could tell just by looking at it right there and then that it was going to be the key scene. There were some really great lines, particularly when they all began to get hysterical — ‘We’ll have to puncture the body! It won’t sink unless we do! We’ll have to puncture the body! Oh, Jesus Christ, what have we done? What have we done to this innocent man!’

  ‘He wasn’t innocent! You can’t afford to start thinking he was innocent!’

  We got a good shot of them dumping him in the water.

  ‘Print that!’ I called and gathered the cast about me. ‘Tonight when you go home, I want you to think about this! Tomorrow we’ll be filming the pub scenes, the planning of the “interrogation”, etc. So I want you to think about an innocent man. I want you to think of a world coming asunder. Of Bennett pleading: “Don’t do it!” and the Englishman just lying here, convulsing. I want you to think of their hysterical utterances the very minute they realized what it was they’d gone and done: “Big shot! Coming into town and acting the big shot! What did he have to come here for? Why couldn’t he have gone somewhere else? Why? Why couldn’t he?’”

  I looked over just for a second and was delighted to see Boyle absolutely riveted to the action! You could tell that — without being too big-headed about it, I thought — the smoothness and professionalism of it had taken him somewhat by surprise.

  For I didn’t think he really believed I had it in me. An instinctive ability to organize people. To bring out the best performance, which is the first real skill of any director.

  ‘I want you to think of all those things,’ I continued, very assured and in control now, ‘and I want you to ask: What made it all happen? I want you to ask this question: Can we ever be absolved?’

  Then I said I wanted to read them something. It was a poem I’d come across in the paper. That very morning.

  ‘Cast,’ I said, ‘I want to read you this!�
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  They irritated me a little by taking a long time to settle down and I was on the verge of saying: ‘Oh, very well then! I won’t fucking read it!’

  But in the end they dutifully complied and there wasn’t a single sound to be heard. Apart from the leaves.

  I cleared my throat and flattened out the paper. Then, with my eyes, for all the world like little cameras, panning across them, each and every one, I declaimed the poem to the best of my ability. Now there’s a poem about peace! I kept thinking. Not like Carmel Braiden’s pile of rubbish that won Fr Connolly’s prize!

  There wasn’t a whisper. Rapt is a word I might employ to describe the waterside atmosphere. As I reached the climax, I declaimed:

  I get down on my hands and knees and do what must be done

  And kiss Achilles’ hand, the killer of my son.

  They applauded as I finished. Then they began to drift off homewards, with the usual valedictions of ‘See you tomorrow’, ‘Ciao’, and so on and so forth.

  I strolled over then to have a chat with Boyle. He was ecstatic, he told me. He said that he just couldn’t believe the performances I’d managed to ‘elicit’ from the cast. That was the word he actually used! And it made me think that even Boyle must want to get in on the ‘creative’ act if he’s starting to use words like that — ‘elicit’!

  I couldn’t believe it as I stood there rapping. That I’d ever been afraid of him calling. Late at night or any other time. It embarrassed me, in fact, when I thought about the imaginary conversations I’d had with him so many times in the caravan. In which I’d hear him giving vent to certain ‘reservations’, if not outright disapproval!

  The truth was that he couldn’t have been more complimentary. I even began to wonder was he overdoing it a bit — in front of the actors, you know? But all the same it was great to hear.

  Then he said: ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I replied as he lit up his Hamlet. The twists of blue smoke went waltzing past his nose, smelling sweet in the summer air. Then Hoss arrived up in a Land Rover and said he was sorry he was late, that he had been looking forward all morning to the filming.

  ‘Ah, you missed it, Hoss!’ said Boyle. ‘You were great in it. You should have seen the young fellow doing your part! He was terrific, so he was!’

  Hoss wanted to know all about this, so I explained as best I could.

  ‘The most important thing for us to realize,’ I said, ‘all of us who were involved — in whatever way — in this, is that the film isn’t in the business of blame.’

  I collected my thoughts and continued: ‘That’s not what it’s all about, Hoss,’ I said, reassuring him, for this was one of the queries which kept coming up: would real names appear in the final cut? Appear at all, in fact? In any cut …?

  I shook my head, vehemently.

  ‘Of course not!’ I explained. ‘It’s just to help the actors achieve … that feel of gritty realism, yeah? For ultimately what the movie’s about is not what happened out at the reservoir that night in Scotsfield or anywhere else for that matter. It’s about what has happened in our hearts, and how it really is possible for art, when it acts as a mirror to the soul, to become a powerful agent for transformation and rebirth! If not outright absolution!’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Hoss. ‘What do you think, Boyle?’

  ‘I wish I had his brains,’ said Boyle. ‘It’s been humbling, Hoss. That’s as much as I can say.’

  I just heard Boyle say that and no more, I was so busy trying to articulate my own feelings. To frame them in language that would do them justice.

  ‘I suppose in a sense I want it to act as a symbol for Ireland and for what has been going on here this past thirty years. Do you know what I’m saying, Mr Henry?’

  Boyle nodded eagerly.

  ‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘And let me tell you this: I’m impressed. Are you impressed, Hoss?’

  Hoss said that he was.

  ‘I’m extremely impressed,’ he said. ‘Very, very. Right, Boyle?’

  ‘Very, very,’ agreed Boyle Henry.

  ‘Extremely, extremely impressed,’ affirmed Hoss.

  Then Boyle tapped his cigar and winked at me: ‘Do you hear Hoss, Josie?’ he said. ‘Using all the big words!’

  I smiled. Then I continued: ‘So, in effect, what I’m saying, Hoss, is that your character — the character Hoss as he appears in the film —could effectively be almost anyone! Anyone who happens to get caught up in a conflict! It’s got nothing to do with you per se!’

  You could tell he was immensely relieved by that, with whatever anxieties he might have had now more or less dismissed for good, it having become perfectly clear that what I was engaged in was not some kind of hastily cobbled together biopic along the lines of Scots-field! That’s the Way It Is! Some miserable little ‘cheap shot’, a tedious, whistle-blowing exercise that would end up achieving nothing but leave a bad taste in everybody’s mouth.

  ‘No, Hoss!’ I continued as I folded up some chairs. ‘What we’re after here is just one thing, and that thing, my friend, is the truth.’

  I was delighted to see him loosening up so dramatically after that —that was clear from his broadening smile. Because, I mean, if I was in the business, I thought, of blaming people, whether it be Hoss Watson or anyone, regardless of what they had done, and I knew Hoss’d done plenty of things … Of saying: ‘You, Hoss, did this!’ Or, ‘You, Hoss, did that! It was you killed such and such in the year 1973! It was you possessed explosives in the year 1976!’ — if that was all I was doing, then my picture was redundant right from the very start.

  What about all the others who had perpetrated deeds of an equally heinous nature? Were a selected band of unfortunates to facilitate their convenient exculpation by shouldering all the blame?

  No, I wanted to show things as objectively as possible and open up the audience’s hearts, so that the like of what we’d witnessed in our times would never occur again.

  ‘So do you get my drift then, Hoss? Mr Henry? It’s not a biography, really, as such.’

  Boyle nodded. So did Hoss. Then he said, as he folded his arms: ‘I’m getting it, Joey. I get your drift. It is, in a way, kind of like, how would you say it? Kind of a version of The Three Stooges.’

  ‘What?’ I said, quite taken aback to hear him saying something like that. But when he explained what he meant I began to understand —kind of.

  ‘Using real people and actors, I mean,’ said Hoss. ‘Like Curly Larry and Moe. Because they were real people, weren’t they, Boyle? I say, weren’t they, Mr Henry?’

  ‘They sure was, Hoss!’ laughed Boyle. ‘They sure was!’ Then he ratcheted Hoss’s nose, and Hoss went: ‘Ow!’

  ‘Take that, ya mallethead!’ laughed Boyle, then said they’d have to be going.

  ‘Well, Joey, my friend,’ he continued then, ‘I don’t know how to thank you for allowing us to see this picture! Do you know something? Keep this up and Joey Tallon won’t be going to Hollywood! For Hollywood will be coming to him!’

  ‘Thanks a lot then, guys! Really glad you enjoyed it!’

  ‘We did, Joey!’ said Hoss as he unlocked his Land Rover. ‘Keep up the good work!’

  ‘Good luck then, Joey! We’ll be seeing you soon!’ called Boyle as he flicked away his cheroot, climbing into the smoked-glass motor. ‘And remember this: we’ll be seeing you!’

  ‘For we’re your biggest fans! Oh yes!’ called Hoss as he tore off across the grass, churning up the mud while his fingers wiggled out of the window. Before, I could have sworn, forming themselves into the shape of a ‘V’.

  Dandelion Clocks

  As I sat there long after they’d gone, listening, with my eyes closed, to the stirring in the leaves, I couldn’t stop thinking of the way that he’d said that ‘Oh yes!’ and kept analyzing it over and over. But in the end I took myself in hand: ‘Stop this now, Joey!’ I said. ‘We don’t want you starting that old bullshit! That doesn’t belong here now.
Those are feelings from a faraway world that no longer has any relevance! You were wrong about Boyle and you’re wrong about Hoss! You didn’t hear a chuckle as he drove off through the field! There was nothing noteworthy about his fingers! That was your imagination, that stupid overworked imagination of yours, so stop it now and forget it! Start living right here in the here and now, and bear witness to your own philosophies! For what sense will it make if you don’t? You, the one who’s been crying out for a new way of seeing things. A new vision and order that will enable us to jettison the ghosts of the past. Then what do you do? You go and fall at the very first hurdle, the very minute that you’ve been tested! Reacting in that same old tired and predictable manner.’

  ‘That way has failed us, Joseph Tallon!’ I cried aloud. ‘And failed us a thousand times! How many false prophets has this country had? How many times have the people been uplifted only to have their hopes, as so many times in the past, literally dashed to pieces before their very eyes? Is that what you’re going to be party to? Is that your intention, Mr Joseph Mary Tallon? Are those your intentions as you’re sitting here today?’

  I rarely addressed myself by my full name. But I was pleased now that I had. It made me feel kind of … whole.

  Which was a feeling that kept gathering inside of me as I lay there beneath the tree gazing across the still water where the midges were whirling and rapiers of light fenced with each other without making a solitary sound. It was mesmerizing; that was all you could say about it.

  ‘Yes,’ I continued, ‘this is what it means to be whole! To utter your own name and listen to the wind bearing redemptive messages from that place of peace and rest, then blowing across the water bringing them to all who desire to hear them.’

  You just knew as you lay there you were in the presence of the others. Where were they exactly? You couldn’t tell for sure, but you knew they were very close by. I rooted about in my shoulder bag and located my Dead Souls. I opened it up and rested it right there on my lap. I closed my eyes and listened again. To the soft wind blowing. ‘Ssh!’ I said as I raised my hand. ‘Was that Bennett I heard just now?’