Call Me the Breeze (46 page)

But this time filled to the gills not with pies or the ‘muck food’ of ethereal mystics but with facts and figures and analyses and strategies. Knowing that in the career that lay before him — it was almost predestined now! — there would be no one in that council chamber who would be able to match his oratory. To use a phrase he’d already noted — in Winston Churchill’s diaries, in fact, which he’d just casually plucked from the library shelves — no one who would be able to ‘steal a march’ on him.

He was in another world, his eyes practically closed as he came striding past Austie’s pub, a hush having descended within those imaginary council chambers, his stentorian voice resounding as by the words of Gogol, the ‘Little Russian’, they found themselves helplessly humbled, now hopelessly cowed by The Candidate’s mesmerizing brilliance.

‘
Colleagues
!’ he boomed — the floor was his! — ‘
The spring which has been held back for a long time by frosts has suddenly arrived in all its glory
…’

Joey smiled as he came past Jackson’s Garage, where psychobilly punks The Mohawks had practised once upon a time. He sighed wearily, but contentedly. There was a tear, he had noticed, in one of the older members’ eyes.

Except that, in the words of Joseph Mary Tallon ‘The Later’ as he sits at his desk in the hallowed halls of Dunroamin’, for all the difference any of these breathless endeavours were going to make to the world —be they the delivery of phantom speeches or his earnest late-night readings of tomes (‘Hmm! This looks interesting!
The History of Western Civilization
by Bertrand Russell! Now what do you suppose we might find in here?) — he would have been as gainfully employed shaving the hairs off gooseberries or firing pellets at the moon through the high holy cheeks of his arse.

Although, you couldn’t, of course, have whispered such a thing!

Why, The Candidate would have taken your head right off if you’d dared to voice that opinion, s
otto voce
or otherwise. Having fallen into his caravan, laden down with books (some of them up to 1,000 pages long!) convinced now — and this time without the slightest doubt! — that he’d at last succeeded in finding his way home.

You can imagine the face of poor Mangan, finding himself practically strapped to the chair, Sir Joseph pacing the floor of the house, thumbs hooked into his waistcoat pockets, proceeding: ‘You may think, Mr Mangan …’ as he circled his quarry portentously — and somewhat
forebodingly
! — until at last his exhaustive catalogue of assertions was concluded and he retired for the evening, Mangan’s sleeping head having long since slumped forward on to his chest as the first light touched the window and the choral approvals of the early morning birdies went chirping out over the foggy, waking fields.

He was off again, head down, folder clutched. Had anybody taken it into their heads to time him, it would have been estimated that he spent at least two entire working days in the composition of his RECONCILIATION PETITION, which he had decided to title his document. All of his remembrances were written out by hand.

‘I hope I haven’t left anyone out!’ he murmured to himself as his eyes scrolled down the sheet of foolscap webbed with the names and dates of the seventies. ‘And the eighties indeed!’ he sighed, contentedly however. For he felt it was a job that was going well.

The names included were Majella O’Hare, Lord Louis Mountbatten, the Hanna family, Billy Reid and many, many others.

So many, in fact, he had to go and ask Una Halpin for another sheet of foolscap — and he’d already filled at least nine or ten!

‘But it’s worth it to do the job well,’ he told himself.

When it was at last complete, he stamped right across the top (having purchased an ink stamp for that very purpose):

THE RECONCILIATION PETITION

and went off to get his tea.

Blushing as he came past the Fuck Me hotel, full certain that the lady in the red coat he saw climbing into the car was …

But it was a false alarm. It was someone else in a red leather coat.

Even allowing for the growing eccentricity of The Candidate, it must be considered a mite audacious for a fledgling politician to set about the task of penning his memoirs before ever having assumed office at all! But
The Life and Times of Joey Tallon
already, of course, existed as a manuscript and was simply now being ‘reimagined’ — it is possible that some might contend ‘plundered’ — and extensively rewritten in a style more suited to its subject, now displaying, most dramatically, the new-found confidence and sense of
real
and
tangible
destiny that resided within its author!

The extravagantly adorned prose at this point included a most vivid description (disturbingly familiar) of a fin-tailed American automobile winding its way through rapturous streets as flag-waving subjects tossed kisses by the score, while in upstairs windows helpless matrons wept, grown men’s eyes glittering with respect as exultant cries of ‘Joey!’ went raising up to the heavens!

The single shot rang out from nowhere, its shocking report reverberating in the heavy heat of the summer afternoon, as the author yawned and closed his memoir for the night. Stripping off his clothes then and retiring to his bunk, suddenly pausing —

He could have sworn he’d heard something. He looked out, but there was nothing, only Mangan, returning from the pump. Closing his door before retiring for the night. That was all.

Nothing save the most imaginable world of peace.

That was something he felt sure of as he slipped in between the covers, gratified, once again, to find himself effortlessly drifting off to sleep. Once more to dwell in that land where candidates slumber, as happy and untroubled as the most valued and cared-for children. It was as though, in recognition of his hard work and belief, he found this new life bestowed upon him.

They were delirious times. And there was nothing he liked more than getting home those evenings, his canvassing successfully completed once more — the numbers who pledged their votes seemed to be literally growing by the hundred. And, after consuming nothing stronger than a nice cup of cappuccino — you could buy it now in packets! — to sit down at the table and continue with his life story, compiled in a thick ledger marked: THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE CANDIDATE. The great thing was that now you never got stuck. Unlike the way it had used to be, right back in the dark old days of ‘the beginning’.

When you had screwed up so many balls of paper you could barely see out your window. The confidence he’d been experiencing out there in the political arena was now, without a doubt — if there ever had been the whisper of one! — transferring itself to the world of creativity as well.

By Christ
! he kept thinking as he continued.
There’s going to be a lot of producers that are left with egg on their faces when this little baby hits the decks! So screw you, Harvey Weinstein! What’s that, Bono? You’d like first option on the movie soundtrack? Well, I’m afraid that’s
too bad because it really isn’t possible! See you around, though, maybe the Clarence Hotel, yeah? Ha ha! Dream on then, Macphisto — you had your chance, compadre
!

Jacy’s name was inscribed on the very front page. He’d spent ages on the calligraphy alone. He didn’t want just any old dedication. He wanted it to be special. In case — miraculously, but miracles did happen, he knew that now! — she might one day see it and think:
He’s trying to explain so we can both attain closure
.

He held it up to the light and gave it the once over. ‘To Jacy,’ it read, in elaborate but very delicate lettering, like you often came across in the classics at the beginning of a chapter. Ornate and special, just like her. He softly repeated the words as he read: ‘To Jacy.’

That was what it was, all right — a means of establishing closure. Of saying farewell to the past for good.

Of course,
some
of it was mischievous — the ‘Assassination of President Joey’ section, for example — but almost all of the remainder told a somewhat harrowing story of a young boy growing up in Ireland. Digressive, perhaps, maybe a little overblown. But never, in its intent, anything other than serious.

At least, that was what the credulous author had been thinking when he wrote the fucking thing: Yes, in
The Amazing Adventures of Blobby McStink
, I’ve written what I can only describe as an extremely serious story!

But it didn’t seem to interest the publishers much. As soon as they got their paws on it, they were by all accounts falling around the Kingfisher office reading it, thinking it absolutely hilarious! It was one of them, in fact, who had suggested the revised title, chortling: ‘Why don’t we title it
Doughboy
? For its deep-fried dumpling of a slow-witted protagonist must certainly be in the front line of idiots!’

‘What?’, I imagine, is the most likely reaction to the disclosure of this piece of heretofore somewhat obliquely adverted to information. ‘You mean the novel really
did
get published? And isn’t yet another “imagining”?’ I can already hear startled readers exclaiming: ‘Really and truly? Genuinely published? And not by some backstreet outfit on brown paper bags?’

Of course it did! Really and truly! No shit,
amigos
! By
Kingfisher
of London, a subsidiary of a major London outfit specializing in literary fiction! How else do you think myself and Bonehead ended up here, in this tranquil rural haven of unbridled peace and contentment?

Albeit full of empty bottles. Bonehead’s forever dragging crates of them out the front — he says I drink enough for ten men now — the refuse collector giving out one day: ‘Jesus Christ,’ he says, ‘what the fuck do youse be at in there, drinking wine and whiskey like it’s going out of fashion! Still, fair fucks to youse, lads, I’d do the very same myself if only I had the dollars!’

But it never does do you much good, no matter how much you drink, does it? For in the end it only makes you worse, and most of the time I’m like a coiled spring emotionally. ‘Thanks to what?’ I hear you say. ‘Attributable to what, this emotional crisis? The failure of your political campaign? The demise of “The Candidate” and the collapse of his nascent empire?’

No, it’s more to do with the collapse of ‘The Emerging Novelist’ and the consequent sad and somewhat reluctant birth — whether Bonehead can bring himself to accept it or not — of ‘Mr Failed Writer’, the man no one wants to bring to the party.

But there it is — the arrival of one unfulfilled artificer into the well-appointed spaciousness of our beautiful new home, Dunroamin’. A Tudor-style residence twenty miles from Scotsfield set back from the road with many attractive features, all secured (to rent, of course!) with the aid of my staggeringly large advance! And on the strength of one’s future royalties (substantial, in fact!).

Bonehead, on my instructions, managed to secure it from the auctioneers without a deposit. ‘I wore them down, Joesup!’ he says. ‘I wasn’t going to take no for an answer! “Do you know who wants to rent it?” I told them. “It’s a very famous novelist! His name’ll be in all the papers! His first book will be coming out soon and it’s going to be a best-seller! So come on now, hand it over!” They couldn’t wait to give it to me, Joesup! They could tell straight away I’d lived in plenty of houses!
No tinker here
! you could see them thinking.
This writer has got to be class
. Jailbirds? Not us, Joey! Not any more! Them days is gone!’

You’ll have to forgive me, Bone, for describing you in the third person. I find it’s conducive to clarity of thinking. And, believe you me, now that I’ve made my decision — to once and for all to embark on
shooting my aforementioned ‘mini-disaster movie’ — I think I could be doing with a little of that.

Which is a pity, really, that it has come to that. Me taking such a decision, I mean. And, believe you me, I fucking well have. Make no mistake about that!

For back then, when I’d heard that the book had been accepted, it really did look like I was going to make it as a novelist! That ‘literary art’ was going to be …
the one
!

Why, in the seconds before the editor Gail Marchant dropped her clanger and made me realize they hadn’t understood the book at all, I’d been on the verge of saying: ‘Oh, fuck all these politics! It’s
writing
! That’s the only true answer! I’ll live my life by
writing
now! That’s what I’ll do! Yes, by Christ! I’ve found the answer at last!’

And now here I am, back to square one. I still can’t believe the words she used that night of the launch — and her such an intelligent lady. ‘Oh, Joseph!’ she says — definitely not drunk! — Not even
drinking
as far as I can remember. ‘I can’t thank you enough for sending us your novel! A talent like that to come completely out of nowhere! It doesn’t happen very often, I can assure you! But what gets me is just how funny it is! I’ve not read anything quite like it! Absolutely hilarious, Joseph! Magnificently overblown Celtic whimsy!’

For one giddy moment or two, I really did think she was joking. Then I looked in her eye and realized she wasn’t. ‘No, he really had us in stitches, that sad old Doughboy McBlob! You’ve really done it with him, haven’t you? Poor old sad old Doughboy! He’s never going to get it right, is he? And yet somehow you love him, poor thing!’