Call Me the Breeze (39 page)

‘The new spring,’ I continued, ‘this new spring which has been held back a long time by frosts. The frosts of deceit! The frosts of denial! The frosts of self-deception, people!’

That led into another big quote from Gogol, the bit in
Dead Souls
where he’s describing the green thickets ‘lighted up by the sun’.

‘
The green thickets
,’ I concluded, ‘
falling apart and revealing an unlit chasm between them, yawning like the open mouth of some huge wild animal
.’

And I have to say, in retrospect, that, in theatrical terms, it really was a pretty good performance — the Gogol parts, at any rate. But afterwards I was completely floored. I could just about find my way out when I’d finished. As I was going through the door, I heard Hoss calling my name. But when I turned to answer there was no sign of him. Everyone had gone back to either playing pool or watching
Big Brother
. With the door just swinging there, I might have been watching it all from the top of a church steeple.

I was going past the Video Emporium when I looked up to see Jacy in the doorway talking to the doorman, the Provo from The Ritzy days. She seemed nervous and pale, obsessively flicking her cigarette. I heard him say: ‘Boyle says he’ll meet you there at half eight, Jacy. He got delayed last night. Problem at home, you know yourself.’

‘Sure I know,’ she stammered, fumbling in her handbag for a lighter. She was wearing the red imitation-leather coat.

Then she turned to him and, drawn, snapped: ‘You think I’m a fool? You take me for a fool, do you, Danny?’

Danny — that was his name, I remembered, bowing my head and keeping on walking.

‘Hey, Joey! Joey!’ I heard him calling. ‘You not talking to the people?’

I couldn’t bear to turn and face her.

‘Ah, come on now, Barbapapa, don’t be like that! Come over here and talk to your old pals, why don’t you?’

I quickened my step and hoped I wouldn’t trip.

I didn’t sleep that night either, being completely convinced of Boyle’s imminent arrival. So I was a bit tired the next day but I couldn’t afford to cancel any more scenes.

‘No, sir!’ I said as I strode along the road. ‘Today all our pages will be shot in their entirety!’

I was going through them individually, working out all the important-details when …

… the car with the smoked-glass windows pulled up noiselessly behind me. Boyle was wearing his panama hat. He leaned out the window and said: ‘Well, Joey! Off to work then, are we?’

All of a sudden I found myself stupidly tongue-tied and completely at a loss. But, as I’d been secretly hoping — actually, been pretty much convinced — it transpired that there had been no need — yet again — for any of my misplaced concern.

‘You’re worrying your head about nothing, for Christ’s sake!’ he assured me. ‘I’m fully behind you and your efforts! That’s what this town needs — more men with vision! It was the lack of them that kept us behind for so long. You and me, sure we’re old pals! Do you remember the night we were together in Oldcastle? Oh now! Keep her going, Joey, yeah? Any help I can give you!’

I couldn’t believe it as I watched him drive away. The new spring had definitely arrived when you were hearing things like that. There was only one thing you could say about it: it was wonderful.

When I got to the hall the cast were waiting. As I swung my loud-hailer I felt like shouting into it: ‘
I love you all! Because you’ve made this possible! Every single one of you — I love you! I just want you all to know that
!’

I couldn’t stop thinking about the ‘Temple of Colossal Dimensions’, which Gogol had described so magnificently in
Dead Souls
. And of
how similar to that my film was, being a kind of theatre … of true forgiveness, I suppose you might say. Whenever I thought of Jacy and all the things I’d done — not to demean all those other poor people who’d suffered, for beside them my story was of little consequence — I wanted to fall to my knees and weep.

All I kept thinking of was how good it had been of Boyle to level with me like that. And clear the air in that life-affirming way.

And why, when he put a call through to my assistant (a really good kid called Morgan) and asked whether it would be OK for him to drop by the reservoir later on that day as he’d heard we were shooting some scenes out there, I hadn’t the slightest hesitation in saying: ‘For sure! Tell the man — absolutely! Absolutely! Of course!’

He arrived straight after lunch, and I pleaded with the cast to give it their best shot. ‘We’ve a really important visitor here today,’ I said. And, happily, from the very first second I shouted ‘
Action
!’, I could tell they were going to give it everything. Absolutely everything those fucking kids possessed!

(These pages — fax sheets actually, which still survive in pristine condition — contain the germ of story I had given them to work from. The dialogue and action they made up themselves.)

Story Treatment:
The Animal Pit
— Salesman Scenes

It was a fine summer’s day in the small border town of Scotsfield. The Lady of the Lake festival was just over and everyone was in good spirits and trying their best to keep it that way, still laughing, joking and lingering about the streets.

So it was not all that surprising that Campbell Morris, an English travelling salesman who happened to be in town on business, should decide to treat himself to a drink or two before continuing his journey to Dublin. The first bar he sampled was the Step Down Inn but it proved to be just that little bit too quiet for his tastes, so he finished up his beer (‘
No! We don’t sell pale ale in here
!’ the barman bluntly informed him) and proceeded further down the street to what was an impressive-looking
building indeed (‘
Barbarella’s — where love stories begin
!’), which looked like just the place for him!

‘If there’s action to be had in the town of Scotsfield then I’ve a feeling it’s to be found in here,’ mused the Englishman to himself as he pushed open the door and went inside. That was the great thing about Ireland, he thought, as he sipped his beer and accepted his change from the barman, who introduced himself as ‘Austie’ — you were hardly in a town five minutes before you were made to feel like you belonged in the place. Already he was beginning to give serious consideration to not returning to Dublin at all — but actually booking into a hotel and —

‘Hello! My name’s Hoss!’ declared the bullish, red-faced man who’d just finished playing pool. ‘You’re on holidays then I take it?’

‘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.