Authors: Patrick McCabe
Winterwood (13 page)
—People don't come back from the dead, Dominic, she snapped, I mean, for Christ's sake, darling, what on earth are you talking
about? I thought that we had cleared this up. I mean, I thought we had been through all this before!
She took a cigarette from her handbag and lit it with trembling fingers. Then she said:
—Look, I don't want to go causing any trouble between us.
I made it clear she didn't have to worry about that. I found myself looking at her and thinking: God, how I love this woman.
—Look, she continued, I don't understand what kind of pressure you were under when you lived in Portobello. What was going
on in your Drumcondra days. All I know is - I don't want to hear you ever mentioning it again.
For a minute or two afterwards she remained a little annoyed. But not for very long, I'm glad to be able to say. Then she
came and sat in my lap, holding her glass as she looked into my eyes. I stared right back into hers. They were a gorgeous
polished hazel. I was putty in her hands.
—You're not offended, she said, with a lovely smile, by my speaking my mind? About you and this - Ned Strange?
—Of course not, I replied, of course I'm not. Who cares about him?
I didn't wait until the next morning. I made up my mind right there and then. And the minute she had gone to bed I gathered
up everything pertaining to Ned Strange, every single notebook and tape and paper cutting, then took them out into the garden
and burnt them. They included the drafts of my book
In Old God's Time: My Mountain Memories
by Edmund Strange, 1980-82, as related to Redmond Hatch. They were the first to go. The very last image I saw catch fire was
one of him appearing, on the day he'd been convicted, outside the Four Courts, shrinking from a baying crowd, with the single
word EVIL rubber-stamped across his face.
The sense of relief after destroying the material was enormous. Not since the day of my wedding had I felt so indomitable,
so irrepressibly optimistic. It worked wonders for me and Casey too. Things between us had never been so good. She was going
from strength to strength now in her career — as indeed, I was myself. The great thing was that we hadn't allowed it to cause
difficulties. We'd had the good sense to nip it in the bud. Because what we understood was that love can conquer everything.
People can get over anything. She really brought out the best in me, Casey Breslin. She had civilly requested me to do something
for her and, as her husband, I had complied.
Fait accompli,
no problem at all.
Au revoir.
So then, Ned, good luck and goodnight. To you and all your partners in hillbilly heaven.
What had happened between me and Casey was a classic example of two people combining their resources, and working together
towards an almost perfect end.
Of course, everything wasn't absolutely 100 per cent - it never is between two married people. No, there were the usual predictable
arguments, but there are very few people in TV and the world of entertainment generally who don't undergo those from time
to time. Especially those with a propensity for high achievement. Which we both possessed, without a doubt, and I, Dominic
Tiernan, a once dim bulb, I was learning from Casey every single day.
I used to marvel at the effortless manner in which she seemed to be able to work a room. They were absolutely mad about the
woman in RTE. The irony being that soon after I'd dispensed with all of the folklore rubbish, I was called into the Director
General's office and asked if I'd be interested in producing and directing a television documentary, the subject of which
was to be — I couldn't believe my ears — the traditions and history of Slievenageeha Mountain!
—Your own home place, I understand, he said.
—Yes, I replied shakily, as the back of my neck began to tingle.
He proposed calling the documentary
These Are My
Mountains,
which I told him I considered an excellent title, suggesting we might use Brian Coll on the soundtrack - a singer whom I knew
had been a long-standing favourite of Ned's.
—An excellent idea, he said, and gave me a smile, declaring good-humouredly as he rose to his feet that he'd clearly picked
the right man.
—For you obviously know your country music!
T
HESE DAYS I HAVE a tendency to chastise myself for my clumsiness and hopelessly embarrassing lack of tact when announcing
my decision to leave RTE. But the truth is that it could hardly have been handled in any other way. I mean, after all, it
wasn't Casey who had walked out on
me.
Regardless of what she might have done, irrespective of how despicable her behaviour might have been - and that was pretty
despicable, believe you me — it would always be Redmond Hatch who had done the walking out.
Redmond Hatch who, in the February of 2004, had abruptly and dramatically ended the marriage. Or 'flipped', which was how
they had taken to describing it in the RTE canteen. I never commented. All I wanted was to get out of the place. Once and
for all, just
get
away. Those were the feelings I had at the time. So there's no point in looking back and trying to rewrite history.
The kind Casey Breslin was, she'd have been able to lie her way out of it anyway, charm judge and jury with that great big
disarming Albany smile. There was this way she had of smoothing back her hair. Of lifting up those hazel eyes. You'd pretty
much have believed anything Casey wanted you to. A very, very smart lady indeed. All I can say is — she saw
this
fool coming.
I ought to have known the night we were drinking and I asked her to put on the blue dress I'd bought for her in town that
day. It really was the most gorgeous dress, and I knew it would look lovely with the matching cornflower-blue hair clasp.
But Miss Sophisticate was having none of it.
—I'm not wearing that Pollyanna rag, she snapped — and I had to pretend that the whole thing had been a joke, which of course
it hadn't been at all. I'd been thinking of her in it practically all week, after I'd spotted it by chance in the window.
—What's wrong with you? she'd continued, quite unreasonably. It's like something you'd see in the nineteenth century!
She went off to her friend's and didn't phone. And the following day said nothing at all about it. All I kept thinking as
I waited for her to phone was: Something dreadful is going to happen.
She came back the following evening, but when I took her in my arms to make love, she moved away and said she was tired.
The only reason I was in a position to leave RTE at all was that around that time the Department of Transport had introduced
new legislation with regard to taxi deregulation. Before that, a plate would have cost close on sixty grand, whereas now I
was able to
get
my hands on one for a little under seven. I won't say it saved my life — it's not like I was on the breadline or anything
— but it sure as hell made things a damned sight easier.
What I couldn't believe were Casey's sweet smiles when the two of us parted for the very last time. It was as if nothing much
had happened at all - apart perhaps from a minor disagreement.
—Bye, darling! she said with a wave, see ya!
Ciaol
For a while afterwards, I succumbed to bitterness and started drinking far too much. I'd begin in the morning and carry on
all day. It would be just like old times, staring out of windows in Temple Bar pubs, surrounded by loud nurses and roistering,
invasive students — cowed by the hegemony of hedonism and imperious youth. I was sure I was going to end up in a hostel again,
longing to be reunited with Catherine Courtney — the only woman for Redmond Hatch.
Initially, that was a conclusion that had frightened me - I won't deny it. But the more I became acclimatised to it, the more
acceptant I became. Knowing that, sooner or later, we would meet again. We were fated to, our two lives fixed on courses which
must inevitably intersect. In case I had ever begun to doubt that, one day, quite out of nowhere, Ronan Collins the drivetime
deejay introduced a record dedicated to a girl from Cork. Which might have meant nothing, obviously, except for the particular
music track which had been chosen. The warmest feeling stole over me then. Obviously Ronan could have played any song. But
he hadn't. He had played
that
one. Which I hadn't heard on the radio for years.
Just hearing it changed everything.
Now I was
certain
the two of us were going to meet. And that private inner conviction — well, it just kept me going. Transformed me, in fact,
made me more amenable and relaxed in myself.
It was lovely, thinking about Imogen as I cruised along, thinking about Imogen who I'd be seeing later that evening. A stag
party reveller in a hat and purple wig gave me a wave from a rickshaw and cheered, before hurtling off into the mass of jostling
colour, beaming like a kid as he held on to his hat, as if jaunting through the gates of Eden itself.
It really is great to work in Dublin now. And, operating out of Aungier Cabs in Aungier Street, I have myself an absolute
ball. There are eight of us on call here in the control office at any one time - and, generally speaking, we pull together
well. I think, in the main, because we're all married men. Occasionally you'll get young whippersnappers, bragging about nightclubs
and all the women they've had. But we never take much notice, just laugh it off, like you do if you've any sense. Young blood
- it never changes. A few knocks is the thing to shut them up. As we well know. For, all of us taxi men, we've been through
the mill. Most of us have been hitched once, if not twice, and are well aware that the only cure is time. And the more time
you give it the better for you. I'm only beginning to realise that now. What you've got to do is remain relaxed — try not
to be unnecessarily alert or over-anxious. That really is so important. I mean, it's only lately I could accurately describe
myself as in any way 'settled' — with regard to my emotional state, I mean. In a way that you could comfortably describe as
'content', or something approaching such a frame of mind. I don't think you really know yourself at all, until you're in your
fifties. That's to say: when you've a little experience tucked under your belt. But more to the point, the wherewithal to
deal with it. And I think it's only fair to say that, approaching sixty-five years of age, I have that now.
The great thing about cabbing is that, essentially, you're your own boss. I mean, obviously, you're accountable to the office
and everything but, by and large, what you do is up to you. You don't want to pick up a fare, well so what. There's no one
going to twist your arm.
I woke up one night and there definitely was someone in the room. My heart was beating rapidly and I kept on thinking: He's
in here.
Now!
I knew it was stupid and irrational and all the rest. But still, try as I might, I couldn't shake the conviction off. I could
even get the faint smell of damp.
There's something in here! There definitely is — I can feel it! I kept on thinking. But no one came.
And I was fine the next morning.
I
T WAS THE 23RD of September 2004, at exactly three o'clock, when I was coming out of the Royal Dublin Hotel, having just
assisted an elderly American lady with her luggage, that the most wonderful event, certainly since the birth of my daughter,
took place. In a manner that was totally unexpected, and yet in a strange way not unexpected at all. Seconds beforehand, I
had experienced what I suppose might be called a presentiment. I mean it was that real, that
tangible.
I could scarcely breathe, and it was as though my entire body became covered in scales. Catherine was standing at the taxi
rank across the street, burdened down with two heavy bags of shopping. She looked so tired, absolutely drained. The fare I
had at the time was an American lady by the name of Karen Venner and I realise now she was deeply shocked and taken aback
by what she considered an unwarranted display of unforgivable rudeness, which was most likely what imprinted my description
on her memory.
—Yes, is all I remember saying, yes, now will you please just pay me the money and go! as I literally flung her bags on the
pavement outside the door of the Royal Dublin Hotel.
I couldn't stop shaking and thinking about Catherine, thinking about how she was so
close,
just so
near.
And, as I'm sure I don't have to tell you, my heart at once went reaching out to her.
I know that some people might say that's a lie, like something you'd expect Ned Strange to come out with. That my heart possessed
two unique chambers, and if one of them was warm, then the other most certainly wasn't. But it isn't a lie.
Of course it's not.
—Catherine, I sighed, my darling Catherine.
This is an enchanted day, I kept thinking to myself, these are truly 'the enchanted days', as I turned the car around, away
from the startled Karen Venner, and pulled up beside her, tugging my cap well down over my eyes.
Every Christmas it is traditional for the taxi drivers to throw a party for the children of St Jude's Orphanage, the school
on the north side for which we often drive. Each one of the cabbies always makes a point of bringing a present, so I went
into town to purchase mine. It was a beautiful day, the sort I really love, crisp and clear with everyone in mufflers and
coats with furry collars buttoned up to the neck. They seemed pretty certain that it was going to be a white Christmas. At
any rate, the major chain stores didn't need any convincing, with Irving Berlin's famous tune piping out of every doorway.
I'll never forget that first Christmas in Soho, not just for the fairy-lit carousel, which, incidentally, had been chiming
the tune 'White Christmas' as well, but for the warm and lovely feeling that pervaded Soho itself.
People will tell you the English are remote, but at social gatherings I've often found them anything but — charming in an
admittedly diffident fashion, but always more than willing to partake in party games and sing-songs. There appeared to be
one in every pub that we passed.
—Everyone's enjoying themselves, aren't they, Daddy? I remember little Imogen saying as she trembled. Trembled with an almost
uncontainable delight.
I remember I had arranged to meet Catherine in the French House in Dean Street and when Immy and I arrived, we were delighted
to see she was already there. Looking gorgeous in this snow-speckled muffler with a great pile of presents sitting at her
feet. As soon as she saw me she strolled across and kissed me. Then, would you believe, who walked in, only a quartet of red-cheeked
happy choristers!
That was the first Christmas that meant anything to Imogen. Before that she really didn't have much of a clue. She did now,
though. All she could talk about was: 'Christmas, Christmas, Christmas'.
—My friend Emma, she's getting a My Little Pony, she told me, if not once then at least a dozen times.
After that the first chance I got I went straight into Hamleys and purchased one for Santa's sack. Pinkie Pie Pony was all
painted up in Day-Glo colours, with a great flowing mane of the glossiest baby pink. She even had these silly coy eyes, with
ridiculously long black curly eyelashes. All the kids were going crazy for them then. I hid it safely under the stairs. That
night I had the daftest dream: the buoyant theme tune playing as me and Immy rode across the sky, passing the Care Bears as
we sailed past the sun.
—Look over there, Pinkie Pie! It's your friends the Care Bears! I heard Immy shouting as she held on for dear life to My Little
Pony's streaming mane.
I had been unsure what to buy as my present for the St Jude's Orphanage raffle — so, straight away, the minute that Pinkie
Pie came into my mind, I thought to myself: Why not? As a matter of fact, I decided to buy two: one for Immy and one for the
raffle.
—So how are we today? the assistant quipped cheerily as she wrapped up the Christmas gifts. Enjoying the festive season, are
we?
—We certainly are, I replied with a smile, are you?
—Oh, yes, sir. Yes indeed. They say this Christmas is likely to be white.
—It's looking that way, I said to her, as I lifted my nose and inhaled with delight.
When I was coming out the door, I almost collided with a group of revelling Icelanders, laden down with boxes and parcels.
We all apologised at the same time before being swallowed once more by the throng.
And what a glorious throng it was.
Dublin had changed so much, I thought to myself, even since those burgeoning days of the early nineties, when Temple Bar had
been little more than a cluster of empty warehouses inhabited by drunken derelicts and wan, impoverished actors. The glistening
steel spike that had replaced the long-since demolished pillar of Admiral Nelson seemed to defiantly embody the spirit of
the new age —pristine, featureless but full of pioneering and resolute spirit. The forelock-touching days of the lowered eyes
and the cardboard suitcase, it seemed now as though they'd never existed at all. Or, if they ever had, it had been in some
half-known Eastern European country, whose slope-shouldered immigrants we patronised now. The airport was so crowded that
at times it seemed only just capable of functioning. A far cry from the days when Catherine and me took our leave at gate
B21, along with a couple of other whey-faced stragglers, every bit as crushed and obsequious as their hangdog, bewildered
antecedents. Now all that belonged in the realm of memory — cast disdainfully into history's dustbin.
The sense of triumph in the city was palpable, you could feel it renewing itself for further assaults upon the future. In
the capital city in the noughties, especially now that it was Christmas, it really was so good to be alive.
When I got back to the base in Aungier Street, what, to my complete and utter amazement, did I find? One of the drivers, as
casual as you like, leafing through the pages of my book
Where the Wild Things Are,
as if he owned the damned thing. That one single incident is sufficient to illustrate just how much things had changed - not
with Dublin but with me, psychologically. Once upon a time it would have been very possible — most probable, in fact —that
such a situation could have turned extremely unpleasant.
Not now, though. Especially not at Christmas, for heaven's sake.
It didn't matter at all, I reassured him. I knew there had to be a logical explanation. It transpired that, yes, indeed there
was. The poor man was apologetic to the point of embarrassment. Which was just as well, for what had I done? I had gone and
stupidly inscribed on the inside front cover. And if that isn't bad enough, had been good enough to write my own name as well.
—Love Daddy XX Redmond
It was a tense moment.
—No harm done, I said, zipping up the holdall.
I became aware he was eyeing me like a hawk.
—There we are! I said gaily, slinging the bag across my shoulder.
—I'm sorry about the misunderstanding, he smiled, I would never knowingly interfere with another man's property.
—Of course you wouldn't! I replied cheerily, aren't we all friends here? Striding out the door, chafing the palm of my hand
with my keys.
It was a short journey to St Jude's but I was rigid and preoccupied all the way.
—
Fuck it!
I repeated. How could I have been so stupid?
I persuaded myself, however, that in all likelihood it would come to nothing.
—How many Redmonds must there be in Ireland?
I kept on repeating that. But I still wasn't convinced and I knew that I wasn't.
I wanted to stay until the end of the prize-giving but the little crippled boy was more than I could bear. It was all going
fine until they lifted him on to the stage.
—Ah, the little dote, said the woman next to me, as they handed him his present.
It was Pinkie Pie Pony in a transparent box. I stammered an excuse and exited out the back, vomiting in a corner of the wide
gravelled yard.
After a double vodka in a bar near the school, I climbed in the car and drove directly out to winterwood. It helped me so
much, just sitting there knowing my baby was close by, the tears staining my face as I softly hummed 'Ribbons'.
After that incident in St Jude's, I had a horrible dream. Even now I can't bear to think of it. Catherine is there and she's
dressed in this ragged, revealing nightie. She's all painted up in a way you'd never have seen her. All I know is I'm lying
underneath her and when she leans in to kiss me, I can feel her hot breath and these strange and distant voices starting to
sing in an angelic choir 'May You Never', singing it so hauntingly it's more scary than beautiful and then you see why because
when you look again it's not her, it's not Catherine, it's Ned. It isn't Catherine, it's Ned Strange and he's rocking back
and forth. Rocking back and forth as he softly whispers in your ear:
—Just remember, like I said - when it happens, you'll
knowl
For the purposes of my RTE documentary, I had made a number of reconnaissance trips back to the valley, and those earliest
departures are amongst my most treasured memories. Casey and I had committed ourselves now to having a child and it was that
we looked forward to more than anything.
—What will we call him - if it's a boy? I asked her.
She shrugged.
—I don't know, she said, somewhat absently.
—We'll call him Owen! I cried enthusiastically.
—Baby Owen, she smiled, patting her — as yet — flat stomach with reassuring warmth: our one and only baby Owen!
She was so good to me in those days. Like a mother sometimes. Which is ironic, what with her being so beautiful and statuesque
and desirable and everything. She'd have my clothes all ready in the mornings, even checking my laptop bag for me, knowing
if left to myself I'd be sure to omit something. We'd be like a pair of teenagers when she dropped me off at Heuston Station,
insisting on accompanying me as far as the train, remaining there right until the departure whistle sounded.
In retrospect, I suppose, I ought to have been a little more perceptive. I should have realised she was trying too hard. But
I suppose if you had suggested such a thing at the time, in all likelihood, I'd have stubbornly refused to believe a word.
When Catherine cried out in the back seat that day, just as I turned into Parnell Square, I got such a jolt that it rendered
me speechless. For over ten minutes at least, I would say. It was only that I hadn't expected her to recognise me. Certainly
not so quickly. Not with the beard and the baseball cap and everything. And it threw me completely, it really and truly did.
No one likes lifting their hand to their wife, regardless of whether they're separated or not. The woman you love, the mother
of your child. It doesn't matter how many misunderstandings there were.
—Oh, Jesus, Catherine, I really am so sorry, I said.
But her peals of panic turned everything upside down. Why had I done it? I asked myself. You have no idea how rotten it made
me feel. She fell across the groceries and slumped across the seat.
—It's going to be OK, darling, I said. You and me and baby Owen and Immy. After this all our problems are over.
Listening to her heavy breathing, somewhat erratic at first but gradually becoming steadier, I started to chat to her and,
slowly but surely, it made me feel good. Gradually, in time, coming back to my senses, instructing myself to relax and not
to go making the same mistake again. The one I'd made with Imogen, I mean.
So I kept on talking, maintained a constant dialogue, one that was nice and fluid and easeful: I wanted to put Catherine's
mind at rest. In the middle of the story I caught a fleeting glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror and for the first time
it dawned on me just how easily, how ridiculously easily, in the baseball cap, I could have passed for Ned Strange. You could
see the copper-red curls showing from underneath the baseball cap. Why, I literally could have been the man's twin! I thought.
Which alarmed me momentarily, I have to say, when I considered the prospective effect on passengers. But I was pretty sure,
on reflection, that most people by now had forgotten the old idiot. Perverts like him were in the news every day. Ned Strange
was just another old relic, a forgotten memory from a country that had more or less vanished, now that the modern world at
long last had arrived. There was nothing in the slightest to worry about.