Call Me the Breeze (26 page)

(There are all sorts of diary entries and notes from those first few weeks in the college. I had forgotten just how hectic it was, but when you read them all together they build up a fairly accurate picture, although there were a couple of little incidents I’d gone and completely forgotten about, such as the ‘
Ciao’
one with the principal — comprehensively detailed amongst the pages of the ‘Community College Ledger’.)

On the way out this morning I met Mrs Carmody, the principal. She is running the place like clockwork. Driving her flash car and wearing a real smart suit — chic businesswoman-type. I had a bit of a chat with her, thanking her for her hospitality and everything, and found her great, I have to say. ‘No, Joseph,’ she said, ‘I’m very much in favour of all the arts. I think that in the past we — actually, not just us, but the education system generally — have been remiss in our attention to them. As well as that, of course, there’s the fact that they generate a substantial amount of revenue in Ireland. I mean, so keep up the good work
!’

‘
Sure, Mrs C.!’ I said, ‘Ciao’ — and she gives me this great big smile, beaming away
!

I remember being in great humour when I got home that day and still in ‘creative mode’ after working on the mag. So straight away I got out the laptop and started hammering away on it like billy-o! Every so often I’d tilt the shaving mirror so I could get a good look at myself working there with the Hamlet cigar in my mouth — ha! Screw you, Boyle Henry! You’re not the only one who enjoys a cigar! — and the caravan full of smoke like I’m one of those guys out of the movie
The Front Page
, maybe, or, better still, Ernest Hemingway! Although I wasn’t sure if he had smoked Hamlets — or any cigars at all, in fact.

But who gave a shit? The thing was that work was being done and that one’s ‘creative muse’ was coming along in leaps and bounds. I couldn’t believe I’d been so fortunate in finding a place like the community college. It was like I’d been put on earth for the sole purpose of going about my business working in that place! I couldn’t stop puffing on the cheroot as I thought that. Then I’d hit the keys! Did I mention that I didn’t eat pies any more? Well, I didn’t! Right now I wouldn’t have been able to remember when I’d last had a pie on a plate. And never would again as long as I lived! For I’d discovered the solution: get that motherfucking head right down and focus on those stories. Which were now coming together great! I mean, there I was, sitting down at the table and writing about Mona, and the next thing you
know — the story you want to tell, the story that gets to the heart — !

Eureka
! I almost kicked over the table.

For it was like you could write anything now. It was like you could write a play.
A film script! A novel
! It was getting like you could write them all at the same time!

‘Easy now!’ I said, and puffed on the Hamlet. Then I calmed down.

I read what I’d just written about Mona.

‘
Mona Galligan was in love with my father. She aborted her baby and became an alcoholic sometime in the 1950s. Then she drowned herself in the reservoir. I loved her very much and used to go to her house every day. When my mother would be cursing my father. It was with Mona Galligan that I first experienced the hunger for rebirth into a world transformed. They threw her baby — or what was left of it — into the sea off Howth Head in Dublin. She told me that one time when she was drunk. I don’t think she knew she was telling me. They used to call her the Chivers jelly. Mona Chivers jelly was what they would call her because she shook so much with the gin.’

That’s all I wrote. Which doesn’t matter because I rolled it up and threw it away. And then got down to the real business. The real hard business of me and Jacy.

As I wrote, I felt like getting up and running away — many times. For I realized now, with each succeeding draft, that I was getting closer and closer to the truth. I remembered reading a piece by James Joyce where he said that, when you write, it’s like what you’re doing is drawing water. You lower the pail into the well of the subconscious and you wait and see what comes up. I was sweating like a pig now and the cigar had long since burnt itself out.

I could feel what was coming, feel it welling up.

No sumptuous widescreen Hollywood, no majestic sweeps, no stirring poignancy at all. Just the crisp black-and-white realism of truth. Like a TV documentary from the early seventies. I couldn’t believe my eyes as I read it. I could see the movie in my mind already. This was how it looked:

The Plan
: A Film Treatment by J. Tallon

We are in a small town in Ireland. It is near the border. There is a lot of excitement in the area today. There has been a constant stream of people
arriving since early morning. They have come from all over Ireland and there is talk that some have even come from as far afield as Canada and the United States. Already an RTE camera crew has installed itself in Austie’s Courtyard, in between the old bar and Barbarella’s, where the Peace and Reconciliation Rally is scheduled to take place. Sightings of the major celebrities Mairead Corrigan and Betty Williams, the original founders of the movement, have been enthusiastically reported, but these have not been confirmed for sure. There has also been talk of a well-known BBC commentator arriving, but this also has not been verified as yet. The air of expectation about the place is palpable. Already the burgers and steaks are being ferried in in boxes and stacked up in The Courtyard in preparation for the festivities which will follow the solemn ceremonies. The ‘Poem for Peace’ winning entry has been enlarged and laminated and is on display in the hotel foyer for all to see. Many in the town are proud of what the young girl has written and without reservation share in the sentiments she has expressed, feeling good about it also because it sends out the correct message to the world at large, informing them of the degree of shame which exists in this community as a result of the violence being perpetrated in its name. There are also those who are not only ashamed but also very angry. Especially when news reaches them of another savage murder in Belfast, which has allegedly been committed by a member of the Provisional IRA. Quite a significant percentage of the townspeople harbour a deep animosity towards this organization and, sometimes, perhaps if alcohol has been consumed, they will give vent to these emotions. They will approach well-known people such as Hoss Watson or Sandy McGloin, stare at them for a minute while flicking a cigarette or something, then close one eye and say: ‘So, what’s your game?
What
is
your fucking game? Who do you think you represent?’ Then sometimes there’s a fight, other times there’s not. Hoss might kick back his chair and snap: ‘No! Who do
you
represent? I’ve got my war, you’ve got yours! So fuck you! You got yours and I got mine —
capiche
?’ But whether he does or not there’s a lot of bad blood, you can feel it in the air. Fr Connolly is very proud. Now that the time is drawing near, it makes all those long nights burning the midnight oil seem sort of worth-while. He has been up and down the town all day. Everywhere he goes people stop to congratulate him. ‘It’s a credit to you, Father. A credit to you and a credit to Scotsfield!’ is what they generally say.

On LLR (Lakeland Local Radio) the DJ is about to interview the Peace People. While he is waiting for them to arrive, he observes that the town could not have hoped for a better day. The temperature right now is close to eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit. Which, he points out, is twenty degrees above normal. ‘
Phew
!’ he says with a laugh. ‘As I stand here mopping my brow with my handkerchief, folks, I might as well be in Florida it’s so hot down here in Scotsfield!’

The interview which follows proves to be very moving, and the switchboard is jammed after it. Mairead Corrigan tells him that when she drives from her home outside Strangford to Belfast she often stops to look at an amazing sight:
a field
! However, it isn’t an ordinary field, she explains, but one covered in rows of a beautiful mixture of blue cornflowers, white daisies and yellow wild flowers. There was nothing she liked more than to stand in the middle of this field and think about the beauty of the flowers, she says, and how wonderful it would be if politicians could see it and perhaps learn from it, thereby giving us something more imaginative and creative to lift our spirits,
because the people of Northern Ireland are a beautiful mixture too.

There is an army helicopter overhead, but no one is expecting any trouble. It’s just there for observation. As a kindly woman observes, coming out of the butcher’s, ‘It would be a heartless soul indeed who would try to disrupt or do anything to spoil such a devout and tranquil gathering as this!’

The Legion of Mary have all decided to dress in white today, and Austie’s wife has been chosen to bear the ‘Candle of Peace’. The band playing at the barbecue has been chosen by Fr Connolly himself, who heard them at a similar rally in Westport, County Mayo. They are called The Doves and they specialize in gospel and charismatic-style songs. Their lead singer is a big fan of the Peace People and has put in a special request with Fr Connolly for a private audience with Betty Williams and Mairead Corrigan afterwards. ‘After the ceremonies and when the festivities are over,’ he explains to Fr Connolly. ‘I just want to tell them how good a job I think they are doing.’

Fr Connolly understands perfectly and assures him he will do his best. Then, standing in the middle of Scotsfield’s main street, he joins his hands behind his back and emits a long, luxurious sigh of contentment, for never, after what must be nearly thirty years in this one place, has he ever, he reflects, seen as much activity ‘up the town’.

Approximately two miles away, in a mobile home on the edge of a former itinerant settlement, there is a certain person who is not at this point exhibiting any sign of wishing to engage in these noble and uplifting community affairs. No, Joey ‘Mohawk’ Tallon is not at this point ‘up the town’ involving himself in any of the preparations nor offering his services in order that things might proceed like
clockwork and present the town at large in a good and favourable light to the greater world outside. Act as an example to them in a certain sense. Not that he isn’t pleased for them. He is. Absolutely delighted, in fact, that things are going according to plan. It suits his purpose perfectly. It’s just that, for the life of him, he cannot sit still. Look at him pacing up and down!
A pie
! he thinks. Then:
No pies! A glass of sweat! No! No fucking sweat
!

Poor Joey is tired and can’t think straight. Not surprising, really. For once more he has been awake since early dawn and his mind is a wall of death, with thousands of thoughts careering around it on high-speed racers. How many times does he have to drive to that mountain before he can say to himself: ‘Look, the fucking place is ready! It’s OK!’ and just forget about it?

He sits down to relax. Opens a book. Closes it again. Presses his forefingers against his temples. In days, he thinks, it will all be over. He is happy about that. So happy, in fact, he would like to celebrate it with a spliff. But that, he is not going to do. He is not going to do that because it belongs to a time that was. A time before ‘The Plan’. A time before ‘Total Organization’.

A time before they set off for home, to that Karma Cave of dreams. Of course, he reflects, it will be like what he longed for all those years ago with Mona, a garden where you could surrender your all. Where dwelt all the ones you’d ever known — Bennett, The Seeker, the salesman. Your own father, Jamesy Tallon.

Except that, with Jacy, it would be even more special than that. The ‘onions’ of their personalities methodically stripped, layer by layer just peeling away to reveal within the shimmering, unblemished light of one another’s souls. The very
essence
of each of those souls.

Before donning his aviator shades, he stared at his reflection in their tinted glass. He looked fine. It was all worked out. He had it all worked out. There was nothing to worry about now. He had been over it fifty times. He knew Jacy was working as a steward at the rally. That had been established. He had watched them practise again and again. He felt proud of her that she had agreed to give her services to the community in this way. When she could, just as easily, with all her knowledge and experience, have poured scorn upon it. But that wasn’t Jacy’s way, was it? That wasn’t the way of The Jace. He knew that now, had seen it time and time again. Boyle Henry was working at it too. But he wasn’t a steward. He was to be positioned miles away from Jacy, looking after the car park on the other side of town, encouraging drivers to park there in order to reduce the volume of traffic in the centre, which, if half the numbers they were expecting arrived, was going to be absolutely crazy. But which suited Joey perfectly. There was a simple genius attached to his plan. He would park the Bedford in the alleyway, then wait until she —

He pulled on his black balaclava — a simple woollen hat complete with two cut-out eyeholes — then leapt to his feet and stood in front of the mirror, barking: ‘
There’s a van blocking the alley! That van has got to be shifted
!’

He practised it again.

‘
I said, there’s a van over there and it’s blocking the alley! That van has got to be shifted! It’s got to be moved
— right now!’

He pulled off the balaclava and sat down, drawing a deep breath. Then he smiled. A gratified, assured smile. Pies? No thanks. ‘That van has got to be shifted!’ he began again in a voice that was strong and firm, and was in the process of taping the bags of sand to his midriff — if anyone gave them trouble he would threaten to blow both himself and her
up if they weren’t guaranteed safe passage. A complete bluff, of course! He wouldn’t harm a hair on her head! Who did they think he was? Eddie Gallagher? Marion Coyle?

Then the door started pounding.

‘Who’s that?’ he demanded, his heart beginning to beat furiously.
This shouldn’t be happening
, he thought. This was a time of Total Organization. He was on the verge of shouting: ‘Go away!’ when, almost in slow motion — he felt like exploding into laughter, for how could this possibly be happening when Total Organization was already well under way, when the regime at last was up and running, with every little detail worked out to the last — how could it possibly be —?